The Shadow Wars
by BallinBlonde21
Summary: TMI moves to space in this intergalactic battle against Valentine. Forced to marry Jace Herondale for unknown reasons, Princess Clarissa works to end this engagement and protect her planet from the darkness across the galaxy. Join the TMI gang as they work to save another planet from the wrath of Valentine. Rated M for sex, violence, and strong language. AU. I don't own TMI!
1. Modern Day Han Solo

_I've hinted that I've had a big project in the works, as my other stories have been rather difficult to update, what with writer's block and exams. I will now be updating those other stories, as I have been really wanting to get this story out there for everyone to read! This story is different from my other stories because this is the first one that I have COMPLETED before posting! This means I will be able to update on a regular schedule and will post a few chapters to get everyone started. That being said, my updating schedule will depend on everyone's interest, so be sure to follow, favorite, review, etc. As always, I love you all and hope you enjoy this new story._

 _(I do not own the Mortal Instruments...or Star Wars for that matter)_

 _The Shadow Wars_

 _Chapter 1: Modern Day Han Solo_

 _Songs:_

 _Part 1:_ _Beast (Southpaw Remix) – Rob Bailey & The Hustle Standard, Busta Rhymes, KNXG Crooked, Tech N9ne_

 _(The working title for this story has been_ Beast _, since that is what it autosaved to, so excuse me if I refer to this story as_ Beast _ever)_

 _Part 2: Enemy Fire – Bea Miller, I Told You I Was Mean – Elle King_

* * *

There's a small smudge next to controls where he's tapping his finger impatiently, creating a slow rhythm to match the gait of the demons drawing nearer and nearer to the intruding ship. He had known landing his shiny gold bird among these black, stealthy attack planes would draw attention, but frankly he can't care less as he brandishes his weapons in anticipation. "Angel, they're so fucking slow!" he complains to no one in particular as he opens the hatch. Forgoing the ladder, he drops down into a crouch, the metal floor of the hangar cold against his fingertips. "Church," he calls to his partnering droid, hearing it whir gleefully in response, "cue the ass-kicking music."

A heavy beat surrounds him, the weight of the seraph blades in his hands familiar as they glow to life. He twirls them on his fingertips, allowing his eyes to fall shut as they hum through the air, a sound that could nearly bring him to orgasm. _Nearly_. The bass drops as his blade cuts into the first demon, its body falling heavily to the floor before him, twitching as it collapses back into its own realm. _Bye, bitch_. "Who's next?" The left side of his lip pulls up—his perma-smirk as several people have referred to it—as they demonic soldiers line up before him, attempting to barricade the entrance into the hangar. Ichor drips from their naked bodies, exposed insides blackened by hell, smelling of death and rot. They scream their battle cries through unmoving mouths, blinking at him with a thousand eyes.

"You're an ugly fucker," Jace muses, jerking his head in the direction of a fat one in the center of the line. It steps forward in challenge, but before it can even click its pinchers, its head rolls to a stop at the base of a ship. "I'll give you two options: the hard way…or the harder way." Thankfully, none of their voices slither into his mind to reply. "Not much of talkers, are ya?" His blade is balanced on his open palm as he stares at it, waiting for these idiots to think he is distracted and charge him.

Like clockwork, they surge forward. His hand clasps around the handle of his blade, swinging it around through three bodies, the other one skewering another two. "I guess you made your decision then." He drove is foot into the chest of a charging demon, watching it stumble into the blade-like claws of his neighbor. Sidestepping outstretched claws and ducking spinning teeth, he finds himself pressed into a corner, several of the demons crawling over their fallen brethren to reach him. "This is unfortunate," he grumbles as he crosses his blades. They meet in the middle as he uses them as scissors to decapitate the four enemies before him. "I thought it would be more of a fight." His blade slips through the final guard, bodies fading from this realm to the next as his boots fall heavily against the floor, his pace quick and sure as he passes his ship.

"I'm off to save the Princess!" he bellows to Church, cutting through puddles of ichor, demon appendages littering the floor as he sheaths his swords. "Don't wait up for me." He salutes his little robot before kicking down the entrance and charging down the lighted hallway.

X.O.X.O.X

Crimson splatters against the floor, dripping from the gash tearing down the side of her face. She leans to the side, spitting blood against the wall. The cold air bites the open wound, keeping her alert. Her shoulders ache from the way she's strung up, arms stretched above her head with her feet hanging a two helpless inches above the floor. Her robes are soaked with sweat, torn down the front to reveal more cuts oozing blood and exposing the creamy skin of her chest to all who pass by. Her weapon is propped against the wall just out of reach, making a mockery of her. Hissing silently in pain, she wiggles from side-to-side, seeking enough leverage to hook her toe through the gun's shoulder strap.

Her vision is blurred, but her ears are hypersensitive, honing in on the shuffling of footsteps down the hallway. She stills her movements and lifts her chin, refusing to hang her head as one of Valentine's minions rounds the corner, daring to look her in the eye. She doesn't care to contain the exasperated laugh at his appearance, earning her a hard slap across the face, sending her swinging toward her gun. _Just out of reach_.

The man before her is short—stout—with long, greasy hair that has begun to gray at the roots. His steel-gray eyes are made to match, staring off lifelessly but growing with lycanthrope disease. His grip tightens on the pistol in his right hand. The other is crippled and cradled against his chest—a weakness. "Princess Clarissa." He sneers her name, lacking the respect she receives on her home planet. She wrinkles her nose at his stench as he stalks forward, sliding the barrel of his gun down her unharmed cheek. His teeth are blue, evidence of sipping too many fairy cocktails, and his breath reeks of decay. He's seemed to frolic with all types of Downworlders, making it a wonder why Valentine sends sleazes like this to do his bidding. Valentine is the one who believes Downworlders are worthless and not to be trusted. He sees them as the means to an end, the next species to be eradicated from the earth to purify the population. Yet he sends one to capture her, to torture her for information that she isn't willing to give. She will not crack under his startling gaze, will not beg for death nor mercy. She will not give him that satisfaction.

He looks like a harmless, middle-aged man—round-bellied from sipping too many alcoholic beverages and wrinkled skin from seeking highs in the Seelie Court. That is, until he licks his lips, pulling them back into a sneer, baring his blue teeth as two, pearly canines elongate. His tongue darts out to probe the edge, his mouth looming closer as he prepares to claim her as one of his pack. "Valentine seems to think you fit the ancient prophecy." Stale alcohol washes over her as his tongues her pulse point, sending an involuntary shiver down her spine. "You're sexy as hell. I'll give you that, but the key to unlocking the universe, not likely." He steps away as fast as he'd approached her, appraising her nearly nude torso. "Valentine wants you alive, but he didn't say anything about the condition." His dirt-encrusted hand cups her cheek, a sick form of a loving caress. "I think we should have some fun."

His lips are rough against hers, bile rising in her throat as she refuses to cringe, instead using his proximity as an advantage. While he's distracting herself with the remaining knots in her dress, she leverages herself up, using her hips to swing herself backward and land solid kick against his chest.

He wheezes, weakened by the unwelcomed lycanthrope disease as he stumbles backward, collapsing against the tile. No sooner than he cracks his head on the floor do footsteps resound down the hall, guards nearing to assess the noise and neutralize any threat. With widening eyes, she attempts to haul herself up the rope as unsuccessfully as before. "Oh Angel," she curses, gritting her teeth as she yanks down on her arms, feeling her shoulders dislocating as her feet land on the floor. She painfully works the knots, her arms going numb above her.

Only one hand is free when men begin flooding into the room, weapons drawn. "Hi," she greets calmly, before brandishing her weapon and opening fire as the demons disguised as soldiers funnel in two-by-two. She hears the whirring of a seraph blade as her other hand falls free. Unsteady, she falls hard against the ground, the butt of her gun driving up into her chest. Luckily, her finger was off the trigger, stopping any stray bullets before they could be fired. Gasping for air, her eyes flick up, finding a blazing orb of gold whirling around, slicing through the demonic army with the finesse only a true Shadowhunter can possess. His tawny gaze catches hers long enough to wink and drive his foot through the chest of a demon, knocking a line of them down in the process before dragging his blade through them.

She narrows her eyes, unwilling to let him have all the glory as she lays uselessly on the floor. Narrowing her eyes, she snatches one of the sleazes' guns, cocking both her weapons against her chest. "Sleeping over there, Garroway?" he mutters snidely, backflipping out of the line of fire as Clary lets the bullets fly. _Damn it_. She'd really wanted to hit him.

"Not a chance." She helps him clear the room, taking out the last two with simultaneous headshots. She shakes off his hand as he tries to grab hers and drag her along. She wants it to be because she doesn't need his help or guidance, but it's mostly because her shoulders make her want to scream in agonizing pain. Her pace slows him down, her short strides no match for his long, elegant legs. But he shows no annoyance, holding his swords in front of him in hopes of confronting a demon.

The winding corridors threaten to become an endless labyrinth as she stumbles after Jace, turn after turn until she's certain they'd gone in a circle. The blue light of the seraph blade ignites a path, flickering as he uses it to slice cleanly through two guards. "You don't get to do this," she glowers, drawing her gun and burying bullets into a few more demons.

"Do what?" he asks in exasperation, not looking at her as his blade exits on the other side of three demons. He throws them aside easily without slowing his pace.

"Come in here and act like I'm going to fall in love with you. I'm not some damsel in distress." Jace laughs without humor, grabbing her arm when she starts to take a wrong turn. "I've got it under control," she huffs, shrugging off his touch again.

"Yes, Princess, you look positively peachy." His voice oozes sarcasm as he kicks open another door, her wall of bullets piercing any demon within range.

"I could shoot you for that, and nobody would even bat an eye."

"Mhmm." She narrows her eyes at his calm response. She can't shake off the feeling of relief that floods through her as the next door opens to the hangar. Jace's bird is parked crookedly between two shooters, not inconspicuous with its golden paint job and the royal emblem imprinted on the nose. She lets him take her hand this time, hauling her through the rows of ships as she fires a few more rounds behind them. "Besides, you'd miss my stunning good looks and witty sense of humor."

He opens the hatch and boosts her in, throwing one of his blades with a quick glance backward at an approaching demon. She hears him mutter something about liking that one, but it is overpowered by her growl as his hand moves to her ass, pushing her that extra inch she needs. Though anger rippled through her chest, she knew she'd never be able to heave her bodyweight up in this condition.

"Don't tempt me, Jace," she replies as he hauls himself in soon after, that damned smirk plastered on his face as she points the gun at his nose. His arrogance doesn't fade as he slides into the pilot's chair, flicking on engines and shields, mumbling commands to Church through a sleek, silver headset, standing out among his golden curls. She decides to ignore him, collapsing onto a bench near the back of the ship. She rummages through the drawers beside her for something to heal the cut on her face. Reaching up, she feels just how long it is, her hands coming away sticky with dried blood. "This is going to scar," she complains, letting her head fall against the wall of the ship as it lifts and flies away to the tune of gunshots.

"Good thing you don't have to worry about it scaring off any potential suitors," he calls smugly over his shoulder, evading enemy ships as they swarm like gnats, the muscles of his shoulders flexing beneath his tight black gear as he cranks on the controls. "Church! A little help down here?" There's a series of beeps in a twisted Morse code that only Jace understands, and he snorts. "Please." On that note, Church unleashes an arsenal of missals, picking off any ship that attempts to fallow into hyperspace. "Thanks, bud," he croons in the most loving tone she'd ever heard him use. Staring blankly, she watches him remove his headset and turn on autopilot.

"Shouldn't have programmed him with such an attitude." He chuckles at her comment as he walks toward her slowly. She's come to notice how his every motion is fluid—the confidence in his lithe walk, the smooth but rippling effect of his flexing muscles, the molten eyes never failing to analyze the surroundings. He pauses before her, reaching to a high shelf above her head. His shirt lifts with the innocent motion revealing his toned stomach dotted with fresh scars and faded marks. Had she seen the cuts on anyone else, she might feel sorry, but Jace didn't need nor deserve her sympathy. He produces a tube of cream, catching her in the act of gawking.

"Got 'em while searching for the perfect meat to serve our guests." She glowers in his direction, snatching the ointment from his hand and yanking off the cap.

"This is _not_ the time to bring that up." She wishes she could cut the damned look of his face as he grabs a fresh linen and begins to remove the crusted blood from her face. Her body flinches when he touches a sensitive spot, but she refuses to cry out. She surrenders the ointment to him without much of a struggle because with her eye swollen shut, she can barely see the cut anyway.

"When would you like me to bring it up, Princess?" She snaps her teeth at his looming hand, angered when he merely chuckles.

"Over my grave." He quirks an eyebrow, her jealously flaring at his array of abilities as he continues to dab at the cut before gingerly applying a layer of cream.

"Look, Princess, I know you get faint at the sight of blood, but this cut probably isn't going to kill you." She crosses her arms, wincing as she remembers what she'd done to free herself. She hopes Jace doesn't notice, but of course, he does. "Let me look at them," he murmurs gently as she attempts to push him away. "Please." It's not the humorous way he said please to his droid. It's softer, more desperate as her hands fall way, her back turning to him. "Why didn't you tell me you dislocated your shoulders?" She's always thought of Jace as a condescending human being, but with a crease of worry between his brows, she can see he's sincere.

She ducks behind her hair. "I had to get free of the restraints somehow." She's standing now, her back flush against his chest as he takes her arm in his hands. He doesn't tell her it's going to hurt. She knows it will. "Just do it," she pushes out through gritted teeth, gasping at the cracking noise as he puts it back into place. Without giving her a warning, he does the other one, then disappears to grab some icepacks, securing them to her shoulders with a cloth wrap. He clears his throat then, drawing her attention to his face. He gestures to her chest, his eyes steady on hers as a blush creeps up her neck.

She shouldn't be embarrassed. It's inevitable, but Jace shushes her insecurities. Asking to dress them. She nods, not meeting his eyes again as he takes medical scissors and cuts away the shards of her dress, leaving her before him in a bra and panties. He makes quick work of her wounds, and she soon finds a shirt slipped over her head, warm and musky. "Thanks," she mumbles, glancing sideways to see a now shirtless Jace disposing of bloodied gauze.

"Don't mention it." She wanders to the copilot's chair, her arms cradled inside the t-shirt. She tips backward, thankful the dome of the cockpit is made of pure glass.

Even with Jace being an asshole, she can never get past the view from up there. The curriculum at the Academy always insisted that space was to be feared. It was described as a cold, desolate void that stretched on endlessly with no life in sight. In reality, there are millions of stars dotting the black surface, some like pinpricks while others blaze as brilliantly as their new sun. Colorful planets rise into view from an invisible horizon as military traffic travels between galaxies in an intricate, crosscrossing pattern. She wonders if this is how they teach young Shadowhunters at the Institute, that space is not something to be terrified of but rather to be glorified and explored. She wondered if it was the galaxy's way of ensuring untrained civilians would not get their wings and stand in the crosshairs of battle. She could ask Jace, but the possibility of that happening is as nonexistent as life on the sun.

Her peace is disturbed when she hears Jace's body falls lightly beside hers, his hands as sure on the controls as they had been tending to her wounds. It's hard not to blush at that thought, but somehow she hides it from him. Until he expertly steers the plane in a few looping circles, tickling the pit of her stomach. A faint smile appears on her face, a giggle tearing up her throat, but she quickly covers it with a cough.

"Clary," he murmurs, looking sideways at her through his long, golden lashes. She always has wondered how Jace seemed to embody the sun. From his golden halo of hair, radiating like the rays that sometimes kissed her pale skin through the opened doors of the hangar, to the unnatural tint of his eyes, leaning more toward liquid gold than amber—he seems to have been birthed from the light. His skin always is perfectly tanned though he often went months without seeing the sunlight. It makes her hate the bastard even more. "We have to talk about our wedding at some point."

"Don't call it that." There it is. The wedding—their wedding, which can also be described as her father's political statement of choosing to marry his heir off to a war hero of Idris rather than to a royal of another planet. In this race of galactic domination, her father stands for democracy, for his planet's people rather than greed and power.

"What do you want me to call it?"

"A strategic move." It is her father's own declaration of war. _The Idrisian Empire is strong_ is his reasoning, but truly, it is a slam at Valentine, who'd propose a union to keep Idris out of the Circle's affairs, and according to the werewolf, fulfill a prophecy that could conquer the universe. And in this moment, the only thing she hates more than the man sitting beside her, who is currently chowing down on a form of mu shu pork he'd presumably brought with him from the kitchens in Idris, is being one of her father's pawns, a piece in his mind game that could never end a war, only escalate one.

"We need to discuss it—"

She cuts him off, landing her hard eyes on the food dangling from his mouth. "Well, I really want to discuss why you think bursting in like a modern day Han Solo is completely acceptable! I was gathering intel about—" Jace snorts, setting his fork down in his meal so he could fully face her.

"You were dangling from the ceiling with demons closing in on you." Her eyes narrow, and Jace annoyingly taps the end of her nose—thankfully with a clean finger. "All you have to do is say, 'Thanks.'"

Turns her chair away from him, choosing rather to stare out at the galaxy beyond than the burning ambition in his eyes. "You'll never get any gratitude from me, Herondale." Silence settles over them as he doesn't reply, continuing to shuffle though his food in search of the perfect bite.

Jace has a slew of annoying habits. From humming while he drives to combing his fingers through his hair when he's nervous, Clary has an ever-growing list of things that he does to bug her. _Tapping my nose_ , she adds mentally, leaning the side of her face against the seat and curling into a ball.

As he starts humming, Clary groans. "Wake me when we're landing in Idris." He salutes her in silence—another annoying habit—and returns his gaze to his meal without another look in her direction.

* * *

 _The next chapters are up! But please R &R so I can gauge the interest! Let me know what you think about the characters and the plot line, and also what your favorite Netflix show is because I just finished Thirteen Reasons Why and I need a new one! I would recommend Thirteen Reasons Why, but as many of my faithful readers know, two of my friends were killed in a car accident and one committed suicide five years ago when I was a junior in high school, there are many triggers in that show that sometimes it even made it difficult for me to watch._

 _Whoa._

 _That was heavier than I wanted it to be._

 _ANYWAYS...drop me a comment, review, PM, anything really._

All My MOTHERFREAKING love

~BallinBlonde21


	2. The Princess Bride is a Fraud

_Welcome to Chapter Two! Does that mean you liked the first one?! Please tell me you liked the first one! I worked really hard on it. I NEED VALIDATION!_

 _Whoops._

 _That wasn't supposed to come out._

 _Okay, okay, what are you doing reading this A/N!_

 _On with it already!_

 _The Shadow Wars_

 _Chapter 2: The Princess Bride is a Fraud_

 _Songs:_

 _Part 1: Scars - Papa Roach_

 _Part 2: Shot Me Down - Skylar Grey, David Guetta_

* * *

Jace casts his empty carton aside and reclaims the controls. "Z4, how are the radars?" Z4 beeps the all clear, and he smiles to himself. Flying is almost his favorite part of being in the Shadowhunter Elite, second only to battling enemies for the good of the galaxy. Life for Jace began when his training did, when Robert Lightwood, then a Shadowhunter trainer took him in as an apprentice.

He was ten at the time, old enough to remember every gruesome detail of the tragedy that brought him to Idris. He could conjure up an image of the fear in his mother's blue eyes as she told him to run, of the pride in his father's as he brandished the rusty sword of his grandfather and protected his family. He remembers the screams, the blood, the stomping of boots above him as he hid in the crawlspace beneath the bathroom rug. That's where Robert found him, covered in his slain parents' blood on his home planet of Alicante. He would later learn that an invasion of Circle members had nearly wiped the entire planet.

Robert sensed the presence of angel's blood in the young boy's veins, and Jace vigorously threw himself into his studies, preparing to avenge his family and overthrow the Circle. He shakes his head at his naivety at that age, believing that strong Shadowhunters fought for vengeance rather than justice is a rookie mistake, one often preyed on by the circle. Emotions like anger and betrayal make soldiers weak, clouding their minds until they are blindly throwing punches at the enemy. Robert took him in as his own child, taught him how to meditate, how to recognize just reasons for fighting, how to keep a clear and calm mind, how to strategize and stay one step ahead. In the process, Robert also gave Jace a new family to protect, directing his thoughts as far from revenge as they could get.

Robert's wife Maryse birthed three children—two boys and a girl. Jace had been there when Max was born, standing in line beside his adoptive brother and sister for a turn to hold him. Small and fragile with fingers that couldn't even wrap around his pinky and big brown eyes that blinked curiously upward at him, the newborn just confirmed what Jace already knew. He wouldn't let anything happen to the Lightwoods, that he would succeed where in the past he had failed.

Alec and Jace performed the parabati ceremony later that spring, creating a bond between the two warriors to aid in battle. During it, Jace voiced his vow to protect Alec at the risk of his own life, making a more permanent form of his secret promise. Isabelle, a strong warrior, rarely saw action. Well-trained and beautiful, her value falls in her ability to produce greater Shadowhunter offspring. Max, at the ripe age of 10, was just learning to handle a blade, getting comfortable with the motions.

"These are your tools," Jace had told him in the sparring room earlier that day, displaying an assortment of sharp, deadly items on a table. "But you are the weapon." His chocolate eyes had widened, as if Jace had said the most poetic thing he'd ever heard. Jace had ruffled his hair, telling him one day he'd be a master of those weapons.

His eyes drift toward Clary, as they always do these days. She slumbers quietly beside him, the occasional snore slipping from her mouth. He smiles to himself, remembering that sometime she snores too loud and startles herself awake, a hilarious sequence to witness. What will it be like having a wife to protect, to eventually have his own children to ensure are safe and happy? The thought terrifies him endlessly.

Throw a hundred demons at him, his confidence flares. Send even the idea of commitment in his general direction, he is waking up with cold sweats in the middle of the night. The thought of a blood family, _his_ family—something he hadn't had in years. He sighes, clutching the controls tighter to not brush the curl from her face. He blames his lack of a maternal figure of his mild attraction to Clary's insults and expansive vocabulary of curse words. Sure, he doesn't exactly want to marry her.

At the ripe age of 21, he is just coming into his prime of infantry, a war veteran primed for battle. But how is he to protect anyone if he is off fighting wars, if he is dead? And yet, he can't give it up, not now, not ever. The Lightwoods are one thing. As purebred Shadowhunters, they have the ability to hold their own, to throw down just as much as he can. But a defenseless princess who has to spray bullets before her in hopes of getting a hit in lies at the complete opposite end of the spectrum.

But the choice isn't his.

When the king approached him in front of his entire squadron and presented him with the honor of marrying into the royal family, he was unable to turn him down, unable to speak in general. His stuttering rendition of something along the lines of _okay_ earned him a hearty clap on the back and a round of congratulations.

It is not a secret that she radiates beauty. Women of Idris both envy her and aspire to be her. Men seek her attention, though she rarely even gives him the time of day. His grip tightens on the steering wheel to refrain from running his hand through her long hair.

Her auburn curls are splayed over the back of the chair, her good cheek pillowed in her hand. The cut on her face is more pink than red now, the skin slowly knitting itself together with the power of the cream. He really wishes he could heal her with his stele. An iraze would have left no trace of the cut on her creamy complexion. She possesses so many qualities of the top Shadowhunters, it's truly a feat that she is not a child of Raziel. She is brave, independent, and strong. She stands for her beliefs but is able to take orders.

Maybe he should have offered her some of his pork. Maybe he should have offered her some other form of food. She is probably starving. He scrubs his hand down his face, casting a sidelong glance at the serene look on her face.

He'd watched her take a pilot droid and leave the hangar. He'd tracked her all the way to Starkweather's ship. But he'd held himself back, waiting until the last second to swoop in and ensure her safety. He knew she would hate him for it. He knew she wanted to have credit all to herself. He'll let her have it. He just wants her to be safe.

With a longing sigh, he gets up, reapplying cream to her face smoothly enough to allow her to sleep. "I'll protect you, Clary. I'll let you go out and be brave, but I'll always protect you."

X.O.X.O.X

Jace's hand on her shoulder rouses her as the ship comes in for a landing. She's noticed he always wakes her before they land in the underground hangar, allowing her to take in the seas of green forests kissed by golden sunshine before once again being surrounded by concrete and artificial light. This is one habit she is grateful for, hating how little she is able to see outside the base.

She notices he is uncharacteristically silent during the landing, only asking Z4 to commence the sequence. He grabs his seraph blade, sliding down the ladder without a single look in her direction. Peering down the hatch, she sees him waiting for her, arms extended. She concedes, dropping into them only to have him set her upright almost immediately. Usually he'd have a cocky comment about women falling into his arms, but his eyes won't even meet hers.

Her brow furrows as she watches the muscles of his back ripple, heading in the direction of the military barracks, opposite to where their adjoining suits are. Her arms are still bound in his shirt, and she tries to ignore the way her body reacts to his scent.

Shaking her head at the concerned paramedics, she stalks over to Maia—her _royal_ personal assistant—who is waiting at the edge of the hangar, her lips pressed into a thin line. Her look is made more severe by the way her brown curls are pulled into a neat ponytail at the back of her head, her eyes downcast as she scribbles ferociously in a planner propped in her hand.

"Princess," she chastises sternly as Clary reaches her. "I have been on the phone all day explaining your absences to—"

"Maia," Clary greets curtly, cutting off the lecture before it can start, knowing her father will jump down her throat the moment he sees her. She continues to walk past, forcing Maia to match her pace if she wants to get a word in edgewise.

"King Lucian has called for you to meet him in his office the minute you land." Clary rolls her eyes, tying her curls into a knot at the top of her head as she traverses the familiar underground pathways of the bunker. To the left sits the Academy, and to the right, the town square. It's a thriving community located beneath the surface, earning the Idrisans the nickname of the Ant People. Rather than attempting to survive the harsh winters on the surface, they'd burrowed down, living in underground tunnels. Sometimes it really pisses her off.

If she increases her speed, she can probably outrun Maia and lock herself in the sparring groom before she can catch up. Though her shoulders are aching and screaming for rest, her mind begs for a release from the thoughts about Jace creeping up. Why was he so quiet? Why had he been so gentle tending her wounds? Why hadn't he picked arguments like they usually do?

Maia, perceptive as ever, wraps a strong hand around her wrist, guiding her to her father like a royal prison guard. Clary can easily break her grip but chooses not to, not wanting to draw attention to her unusual strength for a princess.

"Father," she says as she pushes through the door, Maia closing it behind her and disappearing on the other side. She forces an air of confidence into her voice, a trait the king himself had taught her years ago. She seats herself across from him, his back turned to her. Unexpectedly, he whirls around, his fist slamming against the desk. She startles, breaking her calm composure.

"What the hell are you doing going rogue three weeks before you are to be wed?!" Spittle flies from his mouth as he seethes, his anger having risen both her and him from their chairs.

She levels her gaze on him, all pretenses of poise forgotten. Her breaths are slow, dragging air in through her nose and releasing it through her mouth, desperately trying to bring back the serenity she had before, hoping not to bring this to blows. Like in most situations, she fails. "I'm sure as hell not sitting behind a desk as other people fight my wars." She regrets the words as soon as they leave her mouth. They are not true. Luke is anything but a bystander. "You know I hate being a player in one of your games." King Lucian, who had previously been bracing his weight on his desk, keeping him even with Clary, rises to his full stature. A gentle man at heart, he is stern and stubborn when it comes to traditions and orders.

"This is _not_ a _game_ , Clarissa. This wedding, though strategic, also serves as a morale booster, a sign that Idris puts its people before all else—"

"Then marry me to a Lightwood!" she interrupts. "They are a family of noble Shadowhunters!" Her father's face softens as he realizes what this is really about. Her wedding to the most promiscuous member of the Idrisian army has been a common topic among her and the advisors. He rests a gentle hand on her shoulders, the quiet blue of his eyes calming the storm in her chest as her breathing settles. She'd grown up to those eyes showing her pride, empathy, and love. Now they hold sorrow but no apology. They are strong, unwavering in the decision.

"General Herondale is a renowned war hero, Rissa. The people adore him. He gives them hope."

Clary rubs her forehead, careful of her wounds. She is beginning to realize how little she knows about this man, how her father plans to wed her to a stranger.

"Why not appoint him as duke? Why not just give him the throne? The will to fight runs through my veins, Father, and if you think I'll become compliant simply because I am wed, you are sorrowfully mistaken." Luke sighs, removing his glasses and rubbing the bridge of his nose.

"I know nothing can tame the angel in you, Clary. I've been afraid of this your entire life, afraid of when the world must know the truth about their royal family." He reaches over and clasps her hand. "But this wedding is not about you settling down. This is about restoring the faith of the planet, to unite the people and overcome the tragedies we've suffered." He seats himself again, effectively ending the subject as Clary is left to bite back any further comments. "What did you discover about Valentine?"

She slips back into her chair as Luke appraises the wound on her cheek. She accepts the stele he offers her from his desk drawer, using it to apply irazes to all of her wounds. "Valentine is using lycanthropes to retrieve information and recruit people he believes to be important to the Uprising." She slaps her father's hands away, a bit of annoyance eating at her calm again. Healing herself is meditative, empowering. She doesn't need someone else to take care of her. "You didn't have to send, Jace. I'm not going to fall in love with him just because he swooped in to save the day."

"I didn't send him." Her father doesn't miss a beat with his response. "I didn't even know he'd left the hangar until his droid radioed in for a landing." Inwardly Clary cringes. Jace can monitor her comings and goings better than the King can monitor his. "I must say, though, I am quite pleased. He will make a fantastic husband." She ignores his hopeful smile and splays her fingers on the table.

"Valentine's minions said they're looking to fulfill a prophecy and that he thinks I'm the perfect fit." Her father's eyes widen imperceptibly, but she catches it. He's keeping things from her, nothing out of the ordinary. "I don't have the slightest idea what it is, though. I was millimeters from becoming a werewolf." Her father nods, standing to kiss her cheek.

"I am very thankful to have you home in one piece." He calls for Maia, who opens the door and hovers at the threshold. "Go and get cleaned up. Dinner is in two hours." She nods, dropping in a polite curtsy she'd mastered in etiquette class before striding from the room. She waives Maia off, not interested in hearing about the week of wedding planning ahead of her.

* * *

 _As always, leave me a review if you liked it and want more! Also tell me what your workout is because I need some exercise inspo, summer bod rush is so real right now. Also who in their right mind would be upset that they're marrying JACE HERONDALE? Ugh, Clary, Clary, Clary...I swear with all the AUs she's in, she'd learn._

 _All My Love_

 _~BallinBlonde21_


	3. Bruce Lame

_OMFG, really?! You liked it enough to come to chapter three! I love you. Seriously. I love you. Enjoy, you lovely reader you!  
_

 _The Shadow Wars_

 _Chapter 3: Bruce Lame_

 _Songs:_

 _Part 1: Chicks Dig It - Chris Cagle_

 _Part 2: You Don't Own Me - Grace, G-Eazy (though the older version is great, too)._

* * *

Electricity pulsates through his veins as he swings his seraph blade on the tips of his fingers, ensuring that his biceps flex in the process. The women behind him giggle, eyeing his backside appreciatively as he executes the dummy in front of him. "Ladies," he addresses the line behind him, causing more adolescent giggles. "That's how you kill a demon." Turning, he basks in their adoration, allowing them to shower him with praise though he's merely performed the most elementary attack of their kind. A smirk tugs at the edge of his mouth as he quiets his blade, the energy humming from it drowning out the women's compliments. Long ago, he'd realized the power his body could have over them. The network of scars from demons and enemies calls to them like a beacon through the night. His rippling muscles basically disintegrate their clothes, his alluring magnetic pull dragging their bodies against his.

"Aline," he calls to the girl whose dark eyes are slowly traveling down his body, following the sweat down the contour of his abs into the waistband of his shorts where his shirt had ridden up. They snap to his, showing no remorse for her actions as she accepts the blade he's extended in her direction. She licks her lips seductively, sauntering up to the next stuffed dummy. He has to admit, his favorite part about training his female Eighteens is watching their hips sway in the tight leather pants. She juts her ass out a little bit for him as she lowers into an attack stance.

"I'm not sure I remember how…" she begins, turning to him with a fiery glint in her eye. Jace nods, attempting to retain some professionalism as he wraps his arms around her waist, grabbing the seraph blade just below her hands.

"Just hold it like this and swing—"

"Oh for Angel's sake!" a holler echoes off the training room walls, the clacking of high heeled boots indicating just who's interrupted. Jace watches a veil of dark hair twirl around in front of him before smoothly decapitating the dummy. "Maybe Aline should go train with the Twelves," Isabelle snaps, coiling her whip around her arm as the blue sparks die down against it.

"Maybe you should wait your turn," Aline growls back as Jace drops his arms from around her. He heaves the dummy over his shoulder, tossing it into the corner of the room so he can replace it with a new one.

"To be groped by my brother? Yeah, no thanks." Jace strings up the new dummy, the veins popping from his forearms as he heaves it into the air.

"We are using seraph blades today, Izzy," Jace interjects calmly, tying off the rope and retrieving the weapon from Aline. Rolling her eyes, Isabelle produces one from a sheath on her thigh, staring directly into his eyes as she executes a perfect kill, one many Eighteens don't master until well after their graduation

"Can I leave now?" she asks, boredom and annoyance lacing her tone as she inspects her nails. "I have no interest in participating in an orgy with Bruce Lame and his bitches." He catches the widening of eyes in his peripherals, these women unaccustomed to such vulgarity. Their purpose lies in producing strong Shadowhunter children, meaning they train but they do not fight. They do not hang around the men until wed.

Jace only chuckles, familiar with Izzy's hissy fits. Growing up with three brothers toughens up a girl. "Of course." She gives him a harsh nod and disappears through the training room doors, all the women watching her leave.

He knows they are jealous of her. They are jealous of her strength, her ability to tussle with the boys. They envy her tall, slim figure that has curves in all the right places. They wish they had the black waterfall of hair cascading down her back.

Most of all, they wish the lived with Jace.

And he can't blame them.

"Alright." He motions to Aline, who positions herself in front of him once more. one day each of his soldiers will have to choose one of these women to be his wife, to birth the next generation of warriors as he and Clary will continue the Herondale legacy. Yet he has no desire to procreate, to bring snot-nosed children into this world of pain and destruction. He would not wish this life upon anybody.

He steps away from Aline as she begins to swing, telling her that she's done good just to move on from her to the next one.

X.O.X.O.X

She basks in the glow of the sun pouring through her window, dulled only by the reality that it is a digitalized screen plastering an image of an ancient prairie long ago destroyed by humanity onto the wall. Maia knocks incessantly at the door, jimmying the handle back and forth as if it will break the lock. "I don't wish to discuss my union," Clary mumbles, throwing herself backward onto her freshly washed bed linens, encrusting them with blood and grime from her filthy gear. Jace's shirt still swaddles her close as she relaxes into his scent, allowing her eyes to drift shut as her ears grow numb to Maia's monotonous nagging.

Though she's been healed, her muscles still ache with residual pain, her body flinching every time she lifts her shoulders. The memory of snapping fangs so close to her neck is enough to drive her to insanity when coupled with the rhythmic rapping and the door. She longs for the serenity of her sketchpad, to lose herself into her own imagination and see what her hands create. No hard concentration, no planning—nothing could come between her and the paper when an idea nestled itself in her brain. Yet she's run afraid from her sketchpad for the past few weeks, the longest hiatus from art since her mother's death.

And this time it isn't devastation driving a wedge between her and the pencil.

It's what comes out of the tip of the graphite every time she relinquishes control to her fingers. His strong jawline, his straight nose, his panty-dropping smirk, his hooded and secretive eyes—Jace appears on the paper before her in his full glory. And as repulsed as she is by the idea of him, she has to admit he is very attractive when his mouth can't form words.

"Clary, I will have King Lucian unlock this door for me, which won't be pretty!" Maia threatens. Throwing her arm over her face, the redhead groans, heaving her exhausted body from the bed and flipping the locks.

Without waiting for Maia to close the door behind her, she begins stripping herself of her bloodied gear, shucking it into the corner of the room before disappearing behind a dressing curtain. "The color scheme has to be finalized, like, yesterday," Maia announces from the other side, her voice powerful even through a barrier. Clary hears her pen scratching ferociously against that damned planner, leaving Clary to wonder what she could possibly still be writing and how she can keep track of every note she's ever taken. The shower steam is welcoming as she steps in, promptly assaulted by maids trying to speec up the process. Though she has no cuts, her bruises still ache and her muscles are sore, leaving her to groan in discontent.

"How about white?" Clary offers, trying to keep the sarcasm at bay as she ties her sopping hair into a knot at the top of her head. The dress lying out for her is a tea-length number, dyed royal blue with lace accents. There is absolutely no way she will by shimmying into it without tangling her curls somewhere in the middle.

"That's a Shadowhunter funeral color, Princess," Maia responds flatly, obviously uninterested in the games Clary wants to play. The scratching sound continues, morphing into the sounds of a caged animal clawing its talons to bloody nubs in its desperation to escape. Clary wondered what Maia would be like without fingernails. Probably not much different.

"Exactly." There's a sigh from the other side as Clary pulls the dress over her head, bunching the fabric at the hips before throwing it out around her.

"Traditional gold it is." More loud writing as a maid appears to cinch Clary's waistline. The air rushes from her lungs as the strings are drawn taught, and Maia takes that as an affirmation. The maid apologizes quietly as she does up the laces, Clary's face unquestionably turning as blue as the dress as she gasps for air. Of course, she's used to holding her poise in corsets for hours on end, not slouching in her miserably stiff high heels, not a hint of pain detectable on her face, but behind closed doors, she doesn't care enough to maintain that rigid demeanor.

The door opens, and finally, the morbid scratching ceases. "Hello, Maia." _Jace._

One annoyance traded for another. She'd take the loud pen over her fiancé any day.

"General," Maia greets shyly, undoubtedly batting her eyelashes. Clary rolls her eyes, able to imagine the deep rouge blush coating her assistant's cheeks.

"Jace, you can't be in here!" It's less of a shriek and more of a hiss as she emerges from behind the curtain. The maid sheepishly follows to suit before slipping out the door. Clary wishes she could, too.

"Why not? This is my suite, too." Glowering, Clary jerks her chin in the direction of the door that separates their bedrooms.

"Actually, yours is over there."

"Details, details," he responds, waving his hands in the air. Maia, who has otherwise remained completely frozen, entranced by Jace's blazing stare, squeaks something about weddings and rushes from the room. None too gracefully, apparently, as a loud _thunk_ emanates from the hallway moments later, followed by a high-pitched and rushed apology.

Jace casually leans back against the closed door, as if it were a common occurrence for him to keep the princess company in her bed chamber. He stuffs his fingers into his dark jeans, the gray fabric of his shirt rising up to reveal a sliver of golden skin beneath. Alone, without the harsh black of his gear and the focused attitude of war, he seems relaxed, comfortable almost as his eyes lazily drift from her lips to her breasts, which nearly spill from the low neckline of her dress. Her eyes narrow.

"What do you want?"

He shrugs, looking away quickly before at the floor. "I just wanted to make sure you were okay. You were pretty beat up earlier, and—is your cut healed?" His voice raises in confusion, the steady, rehearsed speech swapped for questions.

She lifts her shoulder quickly, flinching for effect to pretend she hasn't phenomenally healed. "The miracles of makeup, I guess."

"You don't wear makeup." Her brows furrow at his quick response, the observation startling her to silence. She hadn't thought Jace Herondale would pay any attention to her, let alone enough to know that she refuses to paint her face to adhere to ancient societal standards.

"Father does not think the country needs to worry about an injured princess, especially when only a handful of people know I left the bunker." He nods, but she can see in his eyes that he doesn't truly believe her. And why should he? The cream, though effective in knitting together her skin and stalling the blood flow, would not certainly have left her complexion as smooth and soft as it is now. It's obvious she's lying, but she's not sure Jace can be entrusted with the truth. Not now and not ever.

"I brought you this," he says abruptly, as if he's just remembered why he's really here. Rummaging through his pocket, he withdraws his hand to reveal a shimmering diamond ring, one she specifically remembered leaving on the ledge of the women's restroom in hopes that a citizen would pawn it for cash. It certainly would rake in the dough. A white gold setting houses a large, round diamond, surrounding it with more glittering stones before circling itself in a band of smaller, shimmering diamonds. "I know you hate it, but the King wishes for you to wear it."

He's pushes himself off the door now, mere inches from her as his hand stretches the offering between them. "Why would I wear something my father bought to signify my eminent betrothal to you?" Unexpectedly, Jace laughs softly, a warm sound that would turn her insides to mush had they not long ago solidified to stone.

"Well, I bought it."

"Excuse me?" He laughs again, but brings his fist to his mouth to hide it.

"I wouldn't let the king pay for my fiancée's ring. I picked it out. I paid for it." She frowns, annoyed by his lack of control and her lack of things to hate about him. "Makes it more special, coming from an Adonis like me." Ah, there it is, the arrogance she loves to hate.

"You don't own me," she hisses. "This ring is not like a leash that will ensure my faithfulness." Still, she plucks it from his fingertips, shoving it unceremoniously back onto her finger. _Kings orders_ , she tells herself, trying to ignore how perfect it looks nestled among the smattering of freckles that run across her knuckles. "I'm not one of your little toys." Jace's jaw clenches. She's struck a nerve. "Oh, I've heard about all your conquests, thanks to the council's love of gossip."

"That was before, princess." She laughs without humor, turning her back to slip her feet into a dainty pair of heels.

"Oh, please. I don't care how you spend your free time in or out of the bedroom. I just want you to know that will _never_ be us. You can't change me, so don't even try."

She doesn't have time to react when he reaches out, taking her hair out of its knot with nimble fingers. "I will be faithful to you, ma princesse. Ma belle princesse." Her heart pounds in her chest as he sidesteps her, careful to close the door behind him.

* * *

 _Gah! That was cute! Please drop me a review! I will post a new chapter sometime next week, earlier if I get a lot of interest! Mmmm, comment of today should include...favorite snack._

 _Scooby Doo fruit snacks, personally. But like the early 2000s kind, the opaque ones. Now they're like clear and weird, and I know it's because they don't use all the unhealthy dyes and such, but still...it's not the same._

All My Love

~BallinBlonde21


	4. The Void is in my Soul

_Back again with a fresh chapter for you! I'm keeping it short so you can get to the good stuff! Enjoy!_

 _The Shadow Wars_

 _Chapter 4: The Void is in my Soul_

 _Songs:_

 _Part 1: Death of a Bachelor - Panic! at the Disco_

 _Part 2: Skinny Love - Bon Iver_

 _Part 3: She Hates Me - Puddle of Mudd_

 _Part 4: Seventeen - Alessia Cara_

 _Part 5:_ _Born to Raise Hell – J. Angel and DJ Am_

* * *

The people dancing make him sick. Watching the couples gaze lovingly into each other's eyes as the twirl endlessly on the marbled tiles, skirts shimmering in the chandelier's light—he'd much rather be removing his own intestines than witnessing another pubescent boy forcefully stuff his tongue into his date's mouth. Love is weakness. Love is defeat. Love is disgusting.

 _Oh, Angel_ , his mind grumbles as an aged man brazenly fondling a much younger woman's ass confirms his previous statement. Inclining his head to block the pair from view, he toys with the empty champagne flute in his hand, idly letting his eyes roam the woman beside him, in as complete disinterest as he is. Her cheek is pillowed in her left hand, the diamond on her finger catching and refracting light into a sparkling array. She doesn't even look behind her at the server as her fingers curl around another glass of champagne, her kohl rimmed eyes glaring at the rising bubbles momentarily before downing its contents.

"I'm fine, thank you," he says as another glass is presented to him. Clary doesn't even stir at his voice, she's become seemingly captivated with her father perched on his throne across the room, making commands at her with his harshly narrowed eyes, conspicuously jerking his chin in Jace's direction. Jace drops his attention as Clary's turns to him, her lips pressed into a thin line. He's pleased to see that her curls still fall freely to her waist, as full and springy as when he'd taken her clip out. Her attitude, though, is not as appealing. With slits instead of eyes and a tenseness in her muscles that expresses her distaste for her present company, she extends a stiff greeting.

"General," she says, her words deep and forced. They're directed at Jace, but her gaze lingers on the king, seeking approval for her actions.

"Princess," he responds smoothly, smirking at her obvious discomfort. Her stiff posture says she'd rather walk across a bed of nails than utter another word in his direction. The silence between them stretches on to an awkward extent, leaving Jace to sigh and rise from his chair, reaching an opened palm in her direction. "Would you like to dance?" He can see how much she wants to say no, to humiliate him in front of all these people, yet when she glances in her father's direction, he knows she has no choice. His smirk grows as she places a dainty hand in his rough one, allowing him to lead her into the throng of spinning people. He pulls her against him, one hand resting lightly on her hip as the other clutches hers.

"Go any lower, and I'll stab you with a fork." To prove that she's not kidding, he watches her slide a piece of silverware from beneath her lacy sleeve, an inappropriate snort bubbling up from his stomach. The music is too loud for anyone to hear or care, and Clary flashes him a menacing smile, a look that might strike fear into his heart had she not been shorter than five feet tall. She slips the weapon back into her dress and digs one hand into the pressure point at his shoulder. He narrows his eyes at her, still smirking.

"I can think of much more productive ways you could make me squirm," he insinuates with a long, slow wink. Her responding glare is victory enough as he spins her in a fast circle, weaving between the dancing couples in perfect harmony. "They're here to celebrate us, Clarissa. The least you could do is smile." She flashes a tight-lipped grin but offers no more. When the song ends, she twirls away, leaving him standing alone at the center of the floor.

King Lucian, displeased, rises from his seat. This is a man that commands attention. With startling gray eyes and hair to match, he stands at just over six feet and is built of pure brute force, with a booming voice to match. All eyes shift from the general to him. "I'd like to thank everyone for coming to celebrate my daughter's engagement." Clary's begrudgingly made her way to his side, letting him rest an arm over her shoulder and pull her into his side. "May this marriage grow and blossom into eternity!" The gathered crowd cheers and clinks their glasses as Luke's eyes turn toward Jace. "Welcome to the family, son."

The way he says it with so much hope, so much desperation, makes Jace feel that this isn't just about politics anymore.

X.O.X.O.X

"Go away," she finds herself automatically responding to the noise of her door handle turning, cursing herself for not locking it after returning from dinner a few hours earlier. She'd immediately ditched her stiff gown, trading it in for a pair of cotton shorts and a tank top much too revealing for a princess to wear in proper company. Yet breaking stereotypes and customs is her favorite past time, so she makes no move to cover herself as a familiar silhouette appears in her doorframe.

"Are you healing?" the shadowed figure asks, making no move to cross the threshold. His arms are crossed, his back casually pressed to the doorjamb. This presence should be menacing, shrouded in the darkness of her flickering candle flame. His gruff voice should only add more fear, yet she finds it comforting in its familiarity.

"Sebastian," she whispers, rising from the bed to pull him in by his elbow, closing the door behind him. "You know you shouldn't be here." He's still dressed in his gear, weapons weighing down his belt, his dark chestnut hair clinging to his forehead and neck with sweat.

"I had to see you." She studies his lips as his mouth forms those five words, memorizing the inflection of his accent, the crinkle in his eyes, the curve of his subtle smile. She conspicuously turns the engagement ring on her finger, subtly reminding him of what separates them, what will hold them apart for all of eternity. "I know." His words are defeated because they both know there's nothing they can do about it. Her fate has been determined, and her future no longer includes the gentle but strong creature before her. He skims his finger across her cheek, the one that had been healed earlier. "You are so strong," he whispers, opening his palm to cup her cheek. "So beautiful."

"Seb…" Her protests sound weak on even her own ears, as his fingers slide backward, tangling into her curls as he presses her against the wall in one swift motion. She yields to him, his caress so familiar, safe as his lips move carefully against hers, like one misstep could make her disappear. He's the one to break away, chests heaving in unison as he brings their foreheads together, his gaze flickering between both of her eyes.

"I'll kill him if he hurts you," he breathes into the space between their lips, and she squeezes her eyes shut, wishing for one moment she could forget her betrothed, that she could give herself entirely to the amazing, deserving man before her, the one who'd cared for her years before Jace had even uttered a word in the princess's general direction.

"Let's run away," she responds, looking up at him through thick and heavy lashes. They could do it, grab the necessities and take a military bird to the farthest depths of the sky, live out their lives on some desolate but habitiable planet, forget about Idrisians and war and Jace Herondale. Her plan is met with humorless laughter.

"I believe that is treason." She digs her feet harder into the ground, pushing her fingertips into his jawline desperately. But to her surprise, he releases her, taking a deep breath with closed eyes, as if to steady himself. "I love you so much, Clary—"

"I know that," she interjects, but Sebastian lifts one hand slightly to quiet her.

"But don't let that stop you from being happy." There's sadness in his eyes but conviction in his words, like he's settled with his decisions, like he's stopped vying for a future that cannot be his. A fist clenches around her heart and rips it from her chest as those words seep through her skin, icing her feverish blush.

"I don't understand." Her brows are furrowed, and Sebastian toys with the woven bracelet at his wrist, one she'd made for him many years ago, when she was simply the knobby-kneed girl who knocked him down in at the Astros game. Once a sign of undying friendship, it had morphed into something more, something unexplainable and strong. Now, it mocks her.

"Please, Clary, learn to love Jace Herondale. Don't let yourself be held back by what can never be." She wants to tell him that she could never _love_ a man as horrendous as Jace, that her heart would always be tied to his, but all the thoughts fly from her mind as the real truth dawns on her, her heart hammering in her throat, unshed tears stinging the corners of her eyes.

"This can't be goodbye." She wills him to say no, to tell her that he will fight, that he will never give up on the possibility they might be together.

He nods once, blinking slowly as he bites his lower lip, glancing anxiously at the door. "Goodbye, Clarissa."

X.O.X.O.X

The smacking of chewing gum resonates through the hall as soon as he seats himself at Maryse's kitchen table, his head lolling forward until his forehead comes to rest on the surface. His stomach groans at the aroma of his mother's cooking, but his mouth groans at the arrival of his sister. "Isabelle," he greets, able to deduce it's her without even looking up. Her high heels click against the cement floor as she rounds the room to him, coiling and uncoiling her whip around her thigh.

Isabelle Lightwood—wannabe fashionista, actual deadly Shadowhunter—levels her gaze on him, licking the corner of her mouth as if she is physically restraining herself from speaking. Today her dark eyes are rimmed in blue, her sleek black hair twisted into a braid. "You've missed training," he tells her, leveling his gaze on hers.

She snorts, rolling her eyes as the chair beside him scrapes against the floor loudly. "I have no interest in attending your speed dating events." Jace shakes his head with a laugh, splaying his tattooed fingers across the surface of the table.

"I'm actually engaged to be wed, dearest sister."

Her incredulous laugh is drowned out by the image of Clary in his head, her jade eyes narrowing on his as her hair splays around her face like a wildfire. "As if that could stop you." Pulling his attention back to his sister, Jace glowers.

"I am a faithful man," he tells her indignantly. "Why do people keep saying these things?"

"Given your track record, can you blame them?" The faces of women past flash through his mind's eye, sending a shudder up his spine. He recovers quickly.

"As if yours is any better." Isabelle blanches at the mention of promiscuous behavior, freezing in her ministrations with her whip as her eyes flit to the doorway, looking for any sign their father may have heard.

"I'm hardly at your level." Jace snorts indignantly. "What?"

"I've lived across the hall from you for over a decade. The bunker walls are thin, Iz." Isabelle rolls her eyes, the legs of the wooden chair next to him scraping loudly against the floor as she pulls it out. "No matter, you'll be paired soon enough."

"I just hope it's to a born Shadowhunter and not an Ascended human," Robert Lightwood inserts himself into the conversation as he pours himself a glass of water.

"If Idris is desperate enough to pair fertile Shadowhunters and beg them to have children, I don't think they're entirely worried about how the Shadowhunter achieved their Nephilim status," Isabelle hisses at her father's retreating back. Jace juts out his lower lip a little, nodding his head as if to say _true_. "And Jace is marrying a human princess!" she bellows in the direction her father went, crossing her arms over her chest with a huff.

"Hey, bud," Jace greets, effectively ending the conversation as Max enters the room. He ruffles the young boy's hair as he sits down beside him. "How do your Marks feel?" Jace has a soft spot for this kid, hating when he has to take the stele to his skin and burn the runes into it.

"They're good!" he says enthusiastically, reaching out to accept the steaming plate of food extended in his direction. The remaining Lightwoods had funneled into the room, chattering quietly amongst themselves until Jace reached out and collected his plate.

"What?" he asks over a mouthful of rice, some of it falling from his mouth.

His mother is the first to speak up. "When do we get to meet your fiancée?" Jace makes a choking noise as he accidentally inhales some food.

"Mom, she's a princess. I hardly think she does family get-togethers."

"Well you don't have make her sound like a fucking entertainer."

"Language, Isabelle," Maryse admonishes sharply.

"Sorry, Mom," she apologizes sheepishly, pushing some chicken around with her fork. She's been toying with the idea of going vegan, but Robert quickly put that to rest, reminding her how much strength Shadowhunters require. Jace had gotten smacked upside the head for his few comments about what female Shadowhunters needed energy for. "The princess probably doesn't want to meet the family who raised someone as crass as Jace, anyway."

Jace scoffs. "I'll have you know that many women find my mouth to be most desirable." Maryse's fork clatters loudly against the china plate. Isabelle is unfazed. Alec stifles laughter with his shirt sleeve, and Max looks confused by the outburst.

"Excluding Princess Clarissa."

"She's just better at hiding it," he bites out, knowing Isabelle is completely right. Clary hates the front he puts out for everyone. As much as he knows letting her see the real Jace would help their nonexistent relationship, he can't put himself through that.

"She deserves an award."

X.O.X.O.X

She taps the eraser of her pencil absentmindedly against her temple, staring at the pristine page resting on the table before her. It mocks her, staring like a wide, unblinking eye. Frustrated, she pushes the sketchpad away from her, catching the attention of the boy across the room, his nose stuck in a handheld gaming device, an ancient contraption from Mother Earth, so unlike the full body simulations children enjoy today.

"Princess, is something wrong?" he asks, lifting his gaze from the dusty machine his thumbs are moving expertly over. With all the advanced technology on this planet, her best friend seems to prefer aggravating his allergies and slicing his fingers an ancient, metal games. His chocolate eyes are soft behind the glasses sinking down his nose, his shaggy brown hair falling into them. He hasn't needed his glasses since his Ascension six years ago, but they've remained a staple on his face, more of a comfort than a necessity.

"For Angel's sake, Simon! You're my only friend in this place. Drop the formalities." She rolls her eyes, lifting herself from her seat to pace before him.

"Habit, I guess," he mumbles, pulling himself straighter in his chair to cast his gaze on the empty piece of paper. His brows furrow, as confused by her lack of inspiration as she is. His entire existence had been based around watching Clary's pencil breathe life into a flat piece of paper, and now she's barely been able to draw a straight line, let alone carve flawless landscapes into her sketchbook. He's tried to prompt her with differing views out her window, arrays of fruit from far sectors of Idris, even sat with her in the hangar while she gazed upon the stars, yet her pictures always fall flat.

"I'm sick of this life, Simon," she tells him, stopping her assault on the floor to let her eyes trail the fake outside. "Stuck beneath the ground like ants, discussing history and war with completely biased people. It's so dull…so mundane." She sighs, pulling at the edges of her curls the way she used to when she was a young girl, begging her father to fly her to the stars. "I want to feel the wind through my hair, to have the sun warm my face…to smell the rain!"

"Clary, you're scaring me." He uses one finger to push his glasses back up, and the sleeve of his sweater lifts, revealing the inky set of runes lacing up his arm. It still startles her every time she sees them, so used to the plain, human boy that used to color on the walls with her. Simon's generation lacked adequate numbers for the current war, requiring each eligible child to ascend and claim Raziel's blood. And now he has something she doesn't. A fight. A purpose. A place to belong.

"Let's paint the town red!" she yells, bouncing on her heels, and Simon rises slowly to his feet, his newly developed muscles rippling with the motion. "Let's go somewhere!"

"Such as—" he prompts, and Clary can't help but feel a sense of nostalgia. Back before he was known as Simon Lovelace, when he was a simple mundane of the Jewish Lewis family, they would run around the labyrinth of passageways in the bunker, and as they grew, they began catching trains and stowing away in trailers that took the deeper tunnels to other parts across their world, disappearing sometimes for days until the king would send a fighter to pick them up at whatever location they'd made it to.

"The Void." Her response is automatic, and Simon's eyes widen perceptibly, his stature that of fear.

"You want to go to the only place on Idris with civil unrest?" Clary shrugs, tucking monstrous curls behind her ears. The Void was created when the tectonic plates of Idris shifted extremely violently, tearing a whole seemingly to the core of their planet, splitting homes and families directly down the middle. It's a dystopian Berlin Wall of sorts.

The side Clary and Simon spend most of their time on believe in the cause of the current war. They believe that their interference with Valentine's plan is just, that he threatened their way of life for simply upholding the belief that humans, Nephlim, fae, vampires, lycanthropes, and warlocks are created equally and deserve a place in society. The other half—mostly Nephlim extremists—protest the war, even going so far as to destroy stockpiles of supplies prepared to be sent to troops. The border is heavily guarded by the Idrisian military, and people worry that more members of the Circle may reside on the rogue side.

"There are people there I want to see." Simon rolls his eyes. Adventures with the princess always seem to contain hidden agendas. And this one is no different.

Hodge Starkweather—a history and war aficionado and the crown's only link to the Circle—is held captive at the Void, in a nearly unreachable prison suspended above the gap. He'd know about the prophecy. And Clary intends to get answers.

"How about we go to the sports sector," Simon offers, though he loathes organized sporting events, probably due to never having the finesse to participate in such things. "I think there's a football game happening."

"Fine." Clary's eyes flash as she responds because she knows she's going to the Void, with or without Simon.

X.O.X.O.X

"Come on, ref!" Clary rises to her feet, yelling down toward the field with a thousand more voices, the popcorn in her hand flying with her flailing hands. "He had our guy around the neck!"

"Clary," Simon hisses, gripping the hem of her shirt to yank her back down to his level. "Don't draw attention to yourself." Clary offers him a sheepish grin, ensuring her curls are contained by her hat as she continues to cheer on her favorite football team, the Interstellars.

"You're no fun since becoming a Shadowhunter." Simon rolls his eyes, shifting his position to ensure his seraph blade is tucked away by his hip.

"That was _years_ ago."

"My point exactly," she says with a smile, shoving popcorn into her face. Kid Simon had been so much fun, so carefree as they explored the endless expanse of tunnels to memorize the world they lived in. Now he is all about her safety, securing the heir to the throne even though it is not his assigned duty. Simon's shaking his head, looking at the scoreboard in the opposite direction. She takes his momentary distraction to slip a few bills to the concession boy strolling by, pushing the frothy beer against her lips.

"You're going to be the death of me." His tone is disapproving, but there's a laugh in it when she offers him the cup in her other hand. "Are you trying to get me drunk, Clarissa? Because I don't know if you've noticed, but you're only like twelve pounds." She sticks her tongue out at him, her peripherals catching the way her ring reflects in the stadium lights as she lifts her drink. It feels like a ball and chain, a loss of free will, of her own fight.

Her DNA is encoded to rebel against anything trying to hold her back. She is destined to be a queen, and she will not bow down to anyone—not Jace, not Simon, and certainly not Valentine and his psychotic prophecy. Hodge Starkweather is her only lead, her only opportunity to understand what exactly she's fighting against.

The stadium cheers as the Interstellars obtain a crucial first down, a few yards from the end zone. If they score, this is her opportunity to flee. "Listen, Clary, I've got to tell you—" The stadium erupts into a frenzy as a touchdown is called, mere milliseconds before the timer runs to zero, pushing the 'stellars into the lead. Everyone is on their feet, jumping and high-fiving, but Clary is ducking, slipping underneath the fray unnoticed.

"Sorry, Simon," she mutters, in route to the Void.

With her curls tucked into her Interstellars cap, she shuffles past oblivious strangers, meshing with the crowd as if she were just a normal Idrisian, spending her Saturday exploring the vast reaches of their lands, jumping into the hot springs of the underground caves, grabbing a candlelit dinner in the Italian district, and hopping the bullet train back to the capitol. Instead she's concealing a grappling hook beneath her jacket, planning to break into the most inaccessible prisons in Shadowhunter history.

And it was designed this way, to prevent anyone from being lured into the Circle's foiled schemes and to make escape nearly impossible. Idrisian soldiers stand strong at the Void's boundaries, but many people visit to peer to the center of Idris, to watch pebbles echo and fall endlessly until burning in the core. It's a terrifying thought, that everything that slips into that pit is in a perpetual state of freefall until the heat melts its atoms.

Yet as the tunnels give way to a cavernous opening, she is still awed by its beauty. The void is massive. Stretching a three kilometers in each direction—it rises like an iron cloud, suspended by hundreds of thick cables, swaying in the wind rushing from the Void, reaching twenty miles per hour. People gather in huddles, nervously peering over the edge, snapping photos of the other side, instructing children that this is what happens to those who don't eat their vegetables.

They're all to enthralled with the creaking of the split earth to notice the girl using her hook to swing herself beneath the prison, clutching indents with white knuckles while working open one of the trapdoors in the floor. She'd studied the classified floorplans in her father's office, knowing which one would put her closest to Hodge and keep her out of heavy foot traffic. She rises through the floor triumphant and dusts herself off, heading left to where he's locked up.

"Hodge," she greets, running her fingers along the sturdy set of bars holding him in, appraising the scars left from his Marks and battle. His gray hair is streaked with black, presumably its original color before being damned to rot in this cage for his affiliation with Valentine. His gray eyes are hollow as he lifts his head from where it was leaned against the wall, no recognition sparking in their depths. He'd been convicted and imprisoned when she was merely a young girl in pigtails, meaning to him, she was just another guard swathed in black calling his name, taunting him.

Hodge Starkweather is a case of the justice system doing right. He was from a family of beloved tutors since before the War of the Skies, a lineage stretching back to the Shadowhunter's time on Earth, as pure and strong as they come. The Starkweathers were traditionalists, vocal in their belief that humans should retain ignorance to the Shadow World and all its inhabitants. They valued Shadowhunters as silent protectors, fighting off demons and Downworlders only when provoked. But Hodge was always a bit extreme in his beliefs.

The records describe evidence of this from a young age, segregating Shadowhunters against the "others" in grade school, paying special attention to Raziel's children as a tutor. It wasn't until much later, though, that his loyalties to the Circle were revealed.

The War of the Skies was the most detrimental war to all peoples—humans, Downworlders, and Shadowhunters alike. It followed the migration from the freshly uninhabitable earth. It was about what their ancient ancestors fought relentlessly for: land. There were few known planets capable of supporting life at the time, and each species believed it was theirs to claim. The bloodshed nearly totaled four populations: humans, fae, warlocks, and lycanthropes. It wasn't until the Treaty of Idris declared Idris was to be shared by all equally that the fighting subsided.

The War of the Skies severely depleted the Shadowhunter army, who were now needed to keep the shaky peace and protect the budding civilization from all that meant it harm. They'd originally thought that a few generations of reproduction could equalize the population, that if they mandated all fertile Shadowhunters to build multiple child families, the need for soldiers would slowly dissipate.

This mandate stretched across all species and helped return the Downworlder and human population to levels to higher than normal, causing a lift of the Mandatory Marriage Act as it had been named and loathed at for generations. The mandate is still in effect for Shadowhunters, however. Though it seemed to be working at first, their ranks were depleted once more by the introduction of Valentine Morgenstern. Ruthlessly killing Downworlders, humans, and any Shadowhunters allied with them, he single-handedly cut the Shadowhunter population to numbers worse than the War of the Skies. That was when the king, Luke's father at this time, called for drastic measures. All humans deemed fit were to be Ascended as Shadowhunters. Many humans rose to the task, valiantly putting themselves into the throes of a battle they'd only heard of. Shadowhunters welcomed these new numbers, holding extensive training for the newcomers.

Hodge was not one of these Shadowhunters. Valentine did not want the Idrisians to build their armies, so he enlisted the seemingly meek tutor. Hodge was caught attempting to detonate a bomb during one of the Ascension ceremonies and promptly deposited into the prison above the Void. Guards have said he shows no remorse for his actions or for his loyalties.

"I've already eaten," he replies gruffly through the coarse, gray hairs of his beard. Everything about this man is gray—the deathly pallor in his skin, the colorlessness in his eyes, the dullness in his expression. All his color has been snuffed out in this dark, damp cell.

"If it was up to me, they wouldn't feed you at all." She pushes off from where she's leaning on the wall, her shoes echoing down the long hallway as Hodge's curious gaze trails her. "Hell, you wouldn't even get a bed." Hodge laughs once without humor, something that's probably hard to hold onto in a place like this. Her fingers grasp the bars. She tall in this cramped place, strong amongst these withering villains. "I came here to talk about Valentine."

He snorts, his wrinkles running like deep veins in his skin. "I haven't told anyone anything in _years_. Why would I tell _you?_ " He's sneering now, his arthritic joints popping as he hauls himself from the floor, standing nose to nose with her through the bars.

"Because I know what makes you tick, what makes ice shoot through your veins. I know how to stop your beating heart."

"I crave death now, girl. Eternal peace is tempting…desirable even." Clary taps the bars with a sharp fingernail, returning his sneer.

"Though your soul is most certainly destined to drift in the realms of Hell, that is not the deadness I was referring to. More of the…un-deadness." She produces a glass vial from her coat pocket, stolen from the restricted weaponry unit of the army. "I can't quite tell if this is lycanthrope or vampire blood, but either will work nicely."

Hodge visibly recoils from the crimson liquid encased between her thumb and forefinger, his bushy eyebrows pulling together. "What does it matter anyway? It doesn't matter what you are in here." He's bluffing, and she can tell.

"But out there it means something," she gestures down to the door at the end of the hall. "You know more than anyone that you are _nobody_ if not a Shadowhunter." She spits it at him, his despicable and childish beliefs that drove him to this state of madness. "And I do believe you have a younger sister who is very much a Shadowhunter. I wonder how she'd adjust to the life of a Downworlder." She pretends to contemplate this.

"You _wouldn't_ ," he hisses, gripping the bars once more. A relaxed but devious smile pulls at her cheeks.

"Try me." Her eyes dare him to challenge her, to give her the pleasure of showing him what she's made of, of pushing her over the edge and ruining the only thing he cares about.

His head falls like it's become too much for his neck to hold up, his thumb and index finger rubbing his forehead like they can smooth the lines there. She's backed him into a corner, and they both know he's not going to fight. "Tell me about the prophecy," she demands while his guards are down.

"To Valentine, the prophecy is law." His cryptic response tells her nothing, so she grips his neck roughly through the bars, drawing his gaze up to hers, up to the poisoned blood in her fingertips.

"What does it _mean_?" She releases him so he can talk, and he takes heaving breaths, bruises blossoming against the rough skin of his throat.

"Valentine believes there is only one Shadowhunter who parallels his strength," he begins reluctantly, each word pronounced with the annunciation of a teacher. "Only one that can, and will, defeat him." His pause makes Clary's heart pound loudly in his ears. "He will kill every Shadowhunter to ensure his only true enemy dies with them." His sunken eyes are defeated, almost dead as he sulks to the back of his cell once more. That's all he knows.

Clary sets the vial on the floor within his reach. "It's actually poison. If you think hell will be more comfortable than this place, who am I to stop you?" She watches his eyes drop to the floor as she strides away, keeping her head ducked low so none of the newly incarcerated recognize her. She reaches the door and wrenches it open, steeling her nerves as she lowers herself down, using her legs to swing and create leverage for a leap.

Her feet land firmly against the ground on the other end, startling a family who give her no more attention than a glare. She mutters an apology and tries to weave her way into the crowd, only to be pressed forward by a surge of people. Rocks scatter beneath her feet until nothing at all rests beneath her, her hair lifting in the air as her body responds to gravity. She's too shocked to yelp at the jarring pain in her shoulder.

"Princess," Jace grunts, his bicep flexing as he catches her wrist with crushing force, her feet kicking helplessly in the air of the pit below. He curls his arm, hauling her over the side and safely on the other side of the fence before releasing her. Despite deadlifting her entire body, his face shows no strain of exertion. Her cap fell off in the tumble and has become prisoner to the center of their world, allowing her signature curls to fall freely to her waist, whispers now flowing like the wind in these tunnels. "The Void is hardly the place where people request your company." He nods at the other end of the crack, hordes of anti-monarchy activists gathering to shout obscene curses in her direction, lament in her failed death, and jeer at her idiocy.

Instead of blushing in embarrassment, Clary's temper flairs, and she shoves Jace away none to gently, shaking her sore wrist out as she pulls herself from the rock and dusts off her pants. It takes all the restraint she has not to whirl and defend herself. These people hate her because she was born. They hate her for her human status or her high position. She's just a figure for them to spill their unwarranted loathing and ignorance in to. "Hey," Jace says, lifting from his crouch and now encircling her wrist with a gentler grip. "Don't listen to them." Again, she wrenches her arm away. She recognizes that Jace is just an object she's projecting her anger onto, but she can't stop herself from glowering at him before slipping into the swarm of gathering people, ignoring those calling her name.

* * *

 _Review?_

All My Love

~BallinBlonde21


	5. Don't Talk About Fight Club

_Here's the next chapter! Please read & review! Enjoy!_

 _The Shadow Wars_

 _Chapter 5:_ _Don't Talk About Fight Club_

 _Songs:_

 _Part 1: Battle Born - Five Finger Death Punch_

 _Part 2: Player - Tinashe, Chris Brown_

 _Part 3: Do It Like A Dude - Jessie J._

* * *

The weights fall from his loosening grip, bouncing against the floor as a low growl escapes from his throat. The mirrors tacked on the opposite wall mimic his motions as he wraps his bleeding hands in preparation for another set. All alone in the training room, his reflection serves only to scorn him. Gone are the artificial layers of himself, all inconspicuous flexing for the crowd and flirty smirks have been peeled away to reveal a shriveled piece of himself, inhuman—almost—with only a small bit of mortality remaining.

He is awakened by death as it began invading his every conscious moment—his men falling beside him in battle, his parents slain while he watch below, scenarios of avoidance taught to his soldiers every day—the war between life and death is a battle waged inside him every day. Battle born—he calls himself. He was birthed a warrior and will die a hero. Nothing short of glory will please him. No distractions allowed. He used to have a heart. He knows this through the memory of his mother's blue eyes, his father's worn hands. He used to love, to yearn, to dream. But the Circle ensured he lose every part of him that cared, and Robert Lightwood capitalized on his lackluster emotional state. His connection to Alec, though strong and intimate, is solely a step in his journey to greatness, an essential part of the process to secure his heroism through protecting the Lightwood lineage.

At least this is what he tells himself daily.

He eyes himself up and down as he strips his torso, shucking his gear to the corner of the room. His chest is embroidered with an intricate pattern of scars, permanently mapping each failed step in his journey to today, showing him where he's been and where he never wants to go again. Each time he allowed and enemy to get too close or a loved one drift too far—his skin weaves these memories, placing them on full display like the most twisted and painful form of artwork an appraiser may every hope to lay his eyes on.

So he tells himself he loves no one. Because if he doesn't love them, he can protect them. Because everyone he allows too close to him inevitably dies. Because those who get to close see him for what he really is—broken. Because when they see how small Jace really is, they think _he_ needs protecting. Because his enemies are greater than those known to any other man, his allies perish at their hands while he is forced to watch.

And that can't happen.

Never again.

He yanks a dry black t-shirt over his head, disguising his true identity to whoever is walking down the hall.

There's no strength in sympathy, no bravery in pity. So he'll continue to be the unbreakable man, the stoic masterpiece able to leap headlong into the throes of war and return more pristine than before. To the world around, his skin will continue to appear as impenetrable as his soul. Except he can't tell you if he even has one of those anymore.

To love is to destroy. To be loved is to be the one destroyed.

A mantra, a lifestyle, an insurance policy.

Sheathing his knives in his belt, he turns in time to see the door being pushed open, a head of bleached locks peering through the opening.

To love is to destroy. To be loved is to be the one destroyed.

"Jace," she croons, crossing the threshold. He grunts in response, taking a moment to drink her in. She is truly a beautiful woman. With long, tanned legs and slender hips she is able to sashay gracefully while balancing on yellow high heels. Her body is hugged by a tight black dress, a dipping collar allowing for a nice view of her cleavage. He's seen her in more, and he's seen her in less. Her beauty always impressed him but never succeeded in dragging him from the detached pit he'd hidden himself in.

Her eyes are solid blue, thin wings stretching from her shoulder blades, dusted in glitter that catches the light as they flit back and forth. Her blonde waves end in flowering vines, falling to her waist in full bloom. As a fae, their relationship can never progress past friends with benefits, logistically. He knows this; she knows this. So their relationship is benign, as unattached from his side as hers, allowing him to safely worship her body, to drag her to the edge over and over again without fear of attachment on either side. But even she hasn't seen his truest self, hasn't been privy to feast her eyes upon the carvings in his skin. "I heard you training."

"I have a lot on my mind," he responds slowly, every muscle tensed. He can't do these casual relationships anymore, not with a ring on Clary's finger—well, when she decides to wear it.

"Ah, yes," she muses, dragging her sharp fingernails across the weight bars. He can almost feel the burn in his shoulders where they've sunken in before, leaving crescent moons as a reminder of what had been done. "Congratulations, by the way." There is no venom in her words. In fact, they are sincere, a small smile playing at the corners of her mouth.

"The princess is as beautiful as she is stubborn," he replies, shoving his fingers into his sweaty hair as he seats himself on one of the benches. Kaelie laughs softly, settling beside him, but not uncomfortably close. A friendly distance. Her pink lips pull back completely into a smile, revealing a perfect set of white teeth.

"You could use some disorder in your life." He shakes his head, elbows balanced on his knees with his gaze locked on his hands. He doesn't do disorder, attachments, or awkward encounters—the latter of which this certainly is. On a normal day, he and Kaelie would be stripped of just the necessary clothing, tossing around on the middle of the sparring mats and hoping someone might walk in just to catch them in the act. Dirty, passionate, and fading. Inspecting his cuticles as she talks about his future wife is not something he'd ever pictured himself doing. "I just want to know if we are still fucking."

His startled laugh escapes once at her bluntness, tipping his head to catch a sparkle in her eye. She'd used him as much as he had used her. "I wish you only the best in life, Kaelie," he merely replies. She's slowly shifted closer, her claw-like fingernails walking down his chest as she bites her lip.

"Not that you need an ego boost, but _you_ are the best I've ever had." Jace sighs, squashing the small blossom of pride building in his chest. He's spoken for. He can't fall into these traps anymore.

"I can't, Kaelie. I can't be with you anymore. Not in that way, not in any way."

"Marry _me_ , then, Jace Herondale." He can't help the incredulous look that he gives her. Like he'd risk his relationship with the king for one more kiss on her sticky lips, like he'd disregard the Mandatory Marriage Act for a caress with her claw-like nails.

"I'm marrying the Princess of Idris," he almost added an apology at the end, but he's got nothing to apologize for.

"I'll just have to make you miss me, then." She lifts herself from the bench, dropping her eye in a sultry wink before stealing from the room.

As he watches her hips sway into the distance, he feels absolutely nothing.

And he can't decide if that should scare or please him.

X.O.X.O.X

His blade kisses Alec's throat, the black haired boy catching with his fists as he stumbles backward. Sprawled on the sparring mat, the black-haired boy is disarmed and at Jace's complete mercy. He smirks wickedly, letting the mischief leak into his eyes as he withdraws his weapon, tucking it at his up and reaching out his left hand to lift his parabatai. "You were using runes to cheat," Alec mutters lamely, swiping away Jace's hand and lifting himself with a subtle wince. They both know Jace is a more powerful Shadowhunter than his brother, but to prove his fairness, Jace stretches out a scarred arm, lacking the fresh marks Alec accuses him of having.

"Whatever stops the tears, Allie." Alec's icy blue eyes narrow at the pet name as he dusts off his worn-out gear, heading across the room to retrieve his lost bow. "Aren't you supposed to have the upper hand with that thing?" Jace calls after him just to rub salt in his brother's wounds. Alec flips an inappropriate finger in his direction. Whereas Jace prefers the close proximity of combat that wielding a seraph blade brings, Alec favors the distance and control of archery. Though Jace fails to see the appeal in finding high ground while watching the fight play out below—more an observer than a soldier—he has to admit there have been more than a handful of times when he was sure he was about to meet his demise and an arrow would zing by his face, burying deep within the chest of his imminent slayer.

"How's the princess?" his brother asks while inspecting his beloved bow for damage. It had been a gift from Jace many years ago, hand-carved from a dark wood Jace had personally selected from Alicante. It's shiny, curving out at the edges with a grip perfectly fitted to Alec's hand. Needless to say, Alec and Jace will both be disappointed if it is ever lost or destroyed.

Jace rolls his eyes. His brother's question could be mistaken for mindless conversation had it lacked the malicious edge in his voice. "We fucked right where you're standing," he says sarcastically, but Alec does not warrant him with a response. "Still resisting my charms," he admits then, as Alec's mouth lifts with a prideful smile. He's been Team Clary since discovering the King's desire for their union. _This isn't_ Twilight _, you nitwit_ , Jace had said, flicking his brother harshly in the ear. Alec couldn't contain his grin then either, splitting his cheeks as he told Jace, _You're too used to getting what you want_." Now he endlessly roots on Clary's snide remarks and hateful glances.

"Good." Jace knows Alec always has his back, and if it comes down to it, will vouch for Jace and stick by his side, even when it means facing the wrath of their King. So Jace allows his brother to find joy in goading him about his lack of luck with this woman, even in the wake of all his intergalactic sexual conquests.

"I don't know," Jace sighs, his body sinking into a relaxed posture after he's finished putting away the mat. He shakes his head, his sweaty hair sticking to his temples. He's never felt this way before. He's never been privy to the sharp sting of rejection, and coming from the princess of Idris, the feeling is only intensified. "I guess I just want the woman I am marrying to like me, or at least make a conversation without snarling hateful words in my direction."

Alec laughs. "Sounds like every single conversation I have with you." Alec's humorous demeanor dissolves at Jace's serious expression. "That has never been a problem before." Alec's eyebrows are now raised, interested in Jace's new emotions, his eyes zoning in on Jace's as he wipes his blade free of sweat.

His brother is referring to his previous affairs, whom he'd often left alone in the middle of the night, never to see or hear from him outside of training again. He isn't one to be tied down. He's a floater, moving from one woman to the next as unattached as when he began. He could die at any moment, be slain in the battlefield without a second to repent, and he wants to minimize collateral. He doesn't want people to cry over his pitiful life, to miss his measly existence. Maybe that's what's fucking with his head, the idea of being true to one woman for the remainder of his years here, to have someone waiting for his return, wishing on stars for his safety. Not that Clarissa really gives a shit. Jace shakes his head again, a new habit it seems, as he lands his golden eyes on Alec's patient face.

"Getting those women to bed was never a problem either." Alec scoffs gently, seeing directly through Jace's thin lies but choosing to ignore it. He hooks his bow over his shoulder, sensing Jace's discomfort and changing the conversation.

"I'm headed over to the weapon's sector this afternoon, do you need anything?" Jace replies the negative, and their heads swivel toward the sound of an opening door.

"Oh, I didn't realize this room was occupied—" a startled voice announces quietly, embarrassed green eyes hidden by a veil of thick red hair. Jace's heart leaps into his throat, wondering if she'd heard everything they'd been talking about. Alec bows respectfully and scurries from the room, jerking his head toward the princess when he's out of her line of vision. _Woo her,_ he mouths firmly, sticking his thumbs up with a childish grin. Jace rolls his eyes as the door closes behind his brother, the click resounding through the awkward silence between the pair.

"Princess," Jace greets, forcing his stiff back into a strange bow. She blinks at him, seemingly awed by his proper manners in her presence. When he straightens, he notices her arm tucked securely behind her back, concealing a weapon. He licks his lips, forcing himself not to narrow his eyes. "Planning to kill me?" He reaches forward, tugging her arm free of its hiding spot. "Seraph blades are not for _mundanes_." He winces, the words exiting his mouth much harsher than he'd wished. The princess doesn't flinch, and instead, wrenches her arm from his grip with surprising force, whispering her blade to life.

Jace's eyebrows shoot up, mapping her unmarked skin as his brain tries to comprehend why it is actually listening to her commands. The blazing white-blue light slashes streaks across her freckled face as she stalks forward, reflecting in her concentrated and deadly eyes. "Good thing I'm not a _mundane_ then." Automatically, Jace calls to his own blade, swinging it in an arcing circle through the air.

"Your father was a mundane." She matches his movements with surprising eyes, the fluidity in her motions almost a dance as she matches his backward stride, taking one step forward for his every step back.

"I am a child of the stars," she tells him with morbid calmness, a small smile tugging at her lips. "My biological father is from distant galaxies." She doesn't break his gaze as she gestures upward. Jace hadn't been brought to Idris long after the birth of the princess, but who was he to question her origins. She's an exact replica of Queen Jocelyn, right down to the subtle upward curve of her nose. Using his distraction, she lashes out with a kick to his chest, knocking him onto the floor. Before she can pounce, Jace rolls to the side, springing to his feet. He smiles, always welcoming a new sparring partner as she counteracts his advances.

"Why don't you fight with a blade, then?" he asks as she dodges one of his swings. They're circling each other, neither wanting their back to the corner. He sweeps his foot at her ankles, tripping her. She rolls into a defensive crouch, her blade raised to protect her.

"You think Idris desires an adopted Princess?" Her forehead scrunches as she dares him to ponder this question. "This fight for equality doesn't mean the people want a foreign ruler." Her blade cuts through the air, but Jace sidesteps it easily, trying to piece together this new mystery.

"Why wed you to a foreigner then?" He doesn't say it with hate, but with honest curiosity.

She laughs, a strange sound coming from her mouth. "Trust me, I've asked Luke this many times." She drops her defenses for a minute, and Jace lets her speak instead of attacking. "'He's a respected general, Clarissa.' or 'He can relate to the people.'" She shakes her head, sending her curls springing around her face. "New words, same answer."

"How does nobody know?" She's started to fight again, and he finally disarms her. She isn't done, though, flipping backward and out of his reach.

"My father doesn't even know that I know. My mother told me before she died." This is the first thing the princess has said that makes him feel like he can really connect. Watching a parent die is indescribably, especially at such a young, impressionable age. "Lucian met the queen on a desolate planet—lightyears from here—one that doesn't even have a name. She was three months pregnant, but he loved her anyway. Luke married her and raised me as if I were his own." She has her blade again and is advancing bravely toward him.

"Nobody knows where you come from?" She shakes her head in response, lashing out in a series of quick swings that are difficult to parry. He succeeds though, disarming her once more before driving her against the wall, his blade against her throat in a similar position he'd held to Alec earlier. "Why am I privileged to know?' She licks her lips, drawing Jace's attention to how perfectly pink they are.

"Because I need your help."

X.O.X.O.X

Her feet pound against the treadmill, laying a steady beat for the music pumping through her headphones. Sleep had never found her as easily as it had the night before, sending her into a deep unconsciousness until her alarm rang out at four in the morning. She tucks a rogue curl behind her ear, the rest of her auburn curls trapped in a thick braid that thumps rhythmically between her shoulder blades.

She'd been surprised when Jace agreed so easily to her terms, countering with the early morning gym time as a necessity. She hadn't known Jace trained the younger generation. She's never really pictured Jace doing much of anything except pouncing on women and annoying her. Her head snaps to attention as the room is suddenly flooded with light.

Jace leans against the door jam, his inked arms snaked across his chest as his eyes appraise her. She's worn her gear today, tight black hugging her in all the right place, but his gaze still makes her shiver. It's not the kind of gaze that says he's undressing her in his mind. It's the kind that feels like a test, like she may pass or fail simply based on what she's wearing.

"That'll do," he says finally, pushing off the wall and crossing the room to her. He's dressed in dark gear, too, his weapons belt weighted down with an assortment of blades. His blond waves shine brilliantly in the light, blazing like a million suns as he reaches over and stops her treadmill.

"Let's see what you're made of, Princess." He sneers the word, like there's no possible way she can maneuver any of the weapons in this room. She bites the inside of her cheek, knowing that arguing his authority would be a sign of disobedience, and therefore a sign of debilitated self-control. Outside these walls, she will not be afraid to dish back everything he is giving, to put him in his rightful place as a general speaking to royalty. But in the training room, he is the mentor, the one with the experience and the power. She will submit to his requests, knowing he wouldn't dare try anything heinous. Her father is the king after all, and though unknowing of these current endeavors, he will not think twice about kicking Jace's ass if any rumors were to surface.

He's led her to the weight bench, instructing her to lie on her back as he stacks intimidating black disks on either end. "140 pounds," he announces, positioning himself behind her head and curling his fingers loosely around the bar. "Four sets of ten reps. Go." She grips the bar, gritting her teeth against the strain as she lowers more than her bodyweight down to her chest, pushing it up in synchronization with releasing a breath. "One." Her arms are shaking by the end of the first set, but she doesn't allow it to stop her as Jace coaches in her ear.

He's surprisingly encouraging. He's obviously a fantastic trainer as well as a Shadowhunter, judging by how much the kids love sessions with him. He's harsh at the right times but always gives that extra boost when she needs it.

She's just finished one hundred sit ups when Jace leaves her side, rifling through a storage closet in the corner of the room. "Plank!" he bellows over his shoulder, not checking to see if she gets into position. She does, though, sweat dripping from her forehead to the floor below. Her abs are on fire, her legs shaking as she curiously watches his head disappear into the closet. "Down." She collapses onto the floor, no longer interested in what he's doing as she stretches her abs.

His footsteps near her, but she doesn't look up until a weapon is pushed at her.

"Bo staffs?" she asks incredulously, enclosing the cold metal in her fist as Jace extends it to her.

"They'll causes less damage than a blade, but they're still deadly." He shrugs, brandishing his own and taking a stance opposite of her. "There are many attacks you can do with these but—" he discusses the both the most common and most effective ways to fight with the staff, demonstrating each and then allowing her to drive the staff into him as she practices. "Good, and block like this," he shows her, his hand reaching out to lift her elbow as she lets it drop. She gasps, but hides it quickly as a tired huff. She could have sworn she'd felt an electric shock, not the kind that is painful and feels like it might stop your heart, but the tingly kind, like when there's a warm breeze.

The metal sings in her ear as she leans out of its pathway, her eyes narrowing on Jace, who failed to even give her a warning and had taking advantage of her distraction. "So that's how you want to play this?" she inquires, swinging the staff on her fingertips before leveraging one end toward Jace. He easily blocks it with his own, one eyebrow quirked upward with that damned smirk on his face.

"I want you to learn defense." His stick catches her on the hip, but she barely winces as she lashes out at him. "Focus your mind, Clarissa." She squashes the anger rising in her gut, knowing that an irate fighter is a weak fighter. Her eyes lock into his, jade melting into gold as she tracks his movements, stepping backward as he steps forward, blocking the jabs he makes toward her. "Good," he compliments, even though he's managed to clip her with the staff a few times. "Now fight back."

She licks her lips. "Don't go easy on me now." He has the audacity to wink as she thrusts both her arms forward, metal clanging through the silence as it connects with his. She has to admit, she loves the way the staff twirls in her grip, allowing her for a range of motions and attacks as well as defensive blocks.

Their pants resonate through the air as Jace stalks her. She knows he's hoping to back her into a corner, feeling the walls looming closer. She lashes out, satisfied when the staff connects with his shoulder, though he shows no signs of pain. Swinging the staff over her shoulder, she leaps upward, grabbing onto one of the balance bars in the network zigzagging above their heads.

"Smart," Jace tells her, leaping up effortlessly beside her. Her low center of balance is an advantage, but she can't deny how at home Jace looks, continuing to pace forward as she struggles to stay upright as she steps back.

She leaps up to another level, turning on her heel and running as fast as she can to the other end of the room, finding her footing as she turns to meet Jace once more. She smiles venomously, leaping from the edge and landing in a roll, popping up in a squatted position.

"Enough of the goose chase," he comments, gently landing with his knees bent, one hand on the ground as his golden eyes cut right to hers. He's never looked more like a hero than in that moment, even though he was powering forward, ready to attack.

She jumps over his staff as he sweeps out at her legs, surprising herself when she lands a kick in his chest. He lets out a quiet _oof_ , but isn't thrown off balance. Instead, she finds the staff pressed hard against her throat, holding her into place against a wall until she is finally forced to surrender.

The pressure disappears, and there's a lazy smile on his face. She wants to slap it off, knowing that she is a sweaty mess with her chest heaving heavily in labored breathing. "You are much more advanced than I thought." Jace's specialty lies in combining compliments and insults, forcing the victim to scrabble for words while sometimes audibly contemplating the meaning behind his statement.

"I'll have you next time," is all she says, accepting the towel Jace offers to her and using it to wipe the sweat from her forehead and chest.

"No doubt, princess." He rubs the back of his neck awkwardly. "Same time tomorrow?" he says finally, after she's gulped down half her water bottle.

"With blades." She tosses a feral grin over her shoulder before slipping into the still dim hallway.

* * *

 _Thanks for reading! Hit me with a review!_

 _All My Love_

 _~BallinBlonde21_


	6. Meet the Lightwoods

_UPDATE for you, my lovelies. I hope you're enjoying the story so far. It's going to pick up with Clace here really quickly so keep with me!_

 _The Shadow Wars_

 _Chapter 6: Meet the Lightwoods_

 _Songs:_

 _Part 1: Ride - Twenty One Pilots_

 _(Does it bother anyone else that the number is not hyphenated? Jw)_

 _Part 2: Boys Like You- Who Is Fancy, Meghan Trainer, Ariana Grande_

 _Part 3: Until You're Big Enough - Mayday Parade_

 _Part 4: Oh No - Bring Me The Horizon_

 _The Ocean - Mike Perry, Shy Martin_

* * *

Each muscle in her body aches as she rolls from bed the next morning, roused by the clattering sounds of Jace getting dressed in the adjacent room. "Five more minutes," she'd mumbled through the thin walls, but it only served to make Jace louder, the weapons stuffed in his belt clanking like alarm bells with every step he takes. "I'm up," she grumbles, her face pressed into the plush carpet of her floor, her eyes unwilling to open. "Make coffee."

It is strange having a routine with the man on the other side of the door, albeit a very platonic and mundane routine. Maybe marriage won't be all too bad as she hears him pour grounds into the coffee maker he'd snuck from the kitchens for their early stints in the training room. She's taken to leaving her door unlocked, though sometimes Jace flouncing into her room all willy-nilly makes her regret such laziness in decisions. "You're kidding, right?" he asks, looming above her. She only groans into the floor, pretending that with closed eyes she can't see the hand he's extending to her.

Of course, she can't see it, but she can feel its welcoming warmth, smell its fresh coat of hand soap.

"We have one rule, Jace Herondale." Her words are deep and slow with exhaustion.

"Yes, yes," he responds, and she can almost picture him rolling his eyes. "Don't enter the room of the almighty princess without coffee." Her eyelids lift as a strong, familiar aroma fills the room. "I haven't broken it." Her reflexes are a true picture of a Shadowhunter as she snatches the drink from his hands, gulping it greedily as a smirk develops on his face.

It's only then that she realizes she's only wearing a t-shirt. _His_ t-shirt to be exact. One she'd stolen from the laundry maids a few days prior, purely for comfort purposes. She stops mid-swallow, sputtering as he addresses her exact thoughts. "As much as I like this look on you, I think you should get dressed."

"Bastard," she mumbles into the rim of her cup, and Jace gives her a cheeky grin.

"No, actually my parents were married when they had me." It's such an innocent statement that she wants to ask about his parents. She knows he was raised by the Lightwoods, that he came to their planet an orphan. His words don't seem to have any effect on him, even now as they've both had a minute to register their weight. She could inquire where they were wed or even who they were, but that would stray from the routine, put some unwanted intimacy in their normal relationship. "You've got five minutes."

Her body responds immediately to his commands, seeking action rather than thought about her embarrassing outfit. She pulls on her black, stretchy training pants, pulling a tight tank top over her sports bra. Jace had warned her the other day demons and enemies could use clothing as an entrapment, reeling her back with her t-shirt as she tried to pull away. Today, that will not happen.

His room is empty as she peeks through the opened door, savoring the last drops of her coffee as she traverses the now familiar pathway to the sparring mats. She's pulling her hair into a topknot as she rounds the last corner.

Jace stands in front of the windows—not virtual but _real_ windows in the bunker. Sunlight is just beginning to caress the horizon, throwing sparkling gold over the dewdrops and turning his tousled hair into a golden halo. His feet are spread wide, fingers entwined behind his back as he stares in silence, watching the light find every shadow, every inch of darkness and flood it with light.

It's truly remarkable, and had she not been trying to prove her strength to him, she'd have started to sketch him. With his back bare, she can see all the swells of the corded muscle that coils up his arms and across his shoulders, smaller when not tensed but still defined. She can see hundreds of scars mingling with the fresh and faded Marks, creating story of his life that she might never know.

This man is a stranger, a familiar one, but a stranger all the same. The mystery of Jace Herondale is terrifying and exciting at the same time, setting her skin aflame and her heart in overdrive. He must hear her breath catch because he turns slowly to face her. An unmarked part of his chest where their marriage rune will soon burn his skin is flashing like a white-hot beacon. It's powerful, stalling her wild-beating heart, but she refuses to freeze in fear. She tells herself she doesn't care, that whether this man chooses to be kind or mean to her has no effect on her as a warrior. She tells herself that it doesn't matter that his eyes don't linger on her for too long, that she doesn't see his face light up when she enters the room. Her marriage is not based on childish fantasies of true love.

Jace presses a button on a remote in his hand, slides coming down to cover the secret windows. Her mind busies itself with wondering how the entire bunker can be built underground while this room sits in the sun. They have to climb endless staircases to reach the hangar, but a few twists down the hallways leads her to this. "The bunker is built into a hill," he answers her unasked questions, stuffing the remote into his belt as he crosses the room to her.

"The training room and the old garage are the only rooms that actually see the sky." Her brows furrow as she returns to the task of tying up her hair.

"Old garage…?" Jace nods but says no more as he extends a metallic tube in her direction.

"What's this?" she asks warily, wondering if maybe it came from the secret garage she's never heard about.

"Take it," he tells her, a bit more excitement in his voice than usual. She can't keep the suspicion from her gaze as her fingertips wrap around the hilt. "I thought it was time to give you your own weapon, so you don't have to keep sneaking them from the closet."

"Thanks?" It comes out as more of a question than an overwhelming declaration of gratitude, but Jace takes it in stride, pulling his own blade from his belt and calling it to life. She follows suit, feeling it hum with power in the tight grip of her palm.

She's distracted during the first few swings, parrying but not attacking as she finds herself pressed against a wall. Why would her father hold these secrets from her? Why has she never noticed a wing of the bunker against the blankets of green in Idris. Jace stops his advance, lowering his weapon. Had she been of conscious mind, she would have used this to her advantage, attacking with savage abandon as he was forced to play defense. But instead, she blinks slowly, almost stupidly as he silences his weapon. "What's wrong?"

Normally, she'd have evaded such a question, not allowing Jace or anyone to have a glimpse into her mind. "Why would my father have never told me?" The question has a mind of its own as it exits her mouth. Jace just shrugs, unconcerned.

"The architecture of the bunker may never have come up," he supplies casually, his train of thought obviously not following her tracks. She's known her father to be protective, but keeping her from accessing the one thing that's intrigued her the most? He's reached a new level. "I'll tell you what, if you beat me today, I'll take you to see it." The challenge pulls her from the depths of her own mind, though it echoes to her how much she wishes she could quirk one eyebrow right back at his perfectly arched golden one. "If I win, you have to sleep in my shirts every night until forever."

She can't fight the reddening of her face as his chipped incisor becomes visible with his smirk. "You're on." She wastes no time as she begins her attack, employing every trick she's ever picked up in an attempt to gain the upper hand. Not that sleeping in his shirts every night would be a _bad_ thing, but it's the point and the bragging rights that matter. And the fact that she gets to uncover the secrets of this bunker.

She ducks under one of his swings, using her small frame to land behind him and wrap one arm around his and the other to hold her weapon against his exposed throat. She feels his chest rumble with laughter as his blade clatters to the ground, an admittance of defeat.

"You let me win," she accuses, kicking his weapon back toward him as she shoves him away.

"I did no such thing, princess." He doesn't address her with the respect most do, but he also doesn't mock her status. It's, dare she say, affectionate, when he calls her that, like it's not a title but a nickname he's given her.

She releases a heavy breath, not realizing how long they'd actually been sparring before Jace had succumbed to her attack. Her maids will be awake soon, knocking on her door to prepare her for the day. "When can we visit the garage?"

He's running his hand through his hair when she catches his gaze. "I'll pencil you in."

X.O.X.O.X

Night transforms the bunker into a scene directly from her nightmares. During the day, artificial sunlight casts the metallic walls in a golden glow, warm and inviting as it leads you farther and farther beneath the surface of the planet. Without stars to guide her through the indigo midnight, everything seems ominous, hollow, even, as the sound of pattering feet on cement echoes down the empty caverns. "Hurry, Clary," his voice flows through the darkness, his warm hand clasped tightly around hers as he expertly leads her through the shadows. They can't seem to touch him as he runs forward, his entire being seemingly gilded and radiating light.

He matches her pace, keeping them side-by-side as they take sharp rights and lefts in route to a mystery destination. Both seem equally surprised that she doesn't pull away, instead allows herself the giddy feeling of anticipation as he expertly maneuvers the twists and turns of the base. "We're almost there." A chill creeps up her spine, her body barely covered by the flimsy nightgown she wore to bed, but she can't find a part of her to care as Jace pulls to a stop. His inky hand comes to rest on a wall before them, tattooed fingers curling around a handle. It heaves with a groan, and his aureate eyes flash to hers, a wicked grin on his face.

Surprises have not always been good to her, so her heart runs a marathon in her chest, her breaths stuck in her throat. A sliver of silvery light appears on the ground before her, flickering as Jace disappears through the threshold. It's a part of the bunker she's never seen before, with its cracking cement floor and rusting walls. "Come on!" Jace bellows from somewhere on the other side of the wall, followed by the protests of an engine.

Tentatively, she hovers at the door, gasping as she's completely drenched in pure, white moonlight. It's strangely warm against her face, drawing a smile to her lips as she steps inside. It's a cavernous room made of pure glass, a thin separation from her beloved Idris. Her hand flutters to her throat at the sight of the stars, millions of pinpricks in the indigo fabric of night. Never before had she seen them from below, where she could feel so small among their infinite stares.

Jace's hand lands gently on her shoulder, his gaze tipped towards the sky. "It's magical, isn't it?" he whispers, afraid to break the trance they share. She hums softly in agreement, a peal of delight escaping her as one shoots across the sky. "Make a wish, Princess," Jace instructs her, his eyes slipping shut as his hand falls from her shoulder.

She startles herself by regretting the loss of contact. It's fleeting though as Jace shifts from beside her, beckoning for her to follow with a jerk of his head. She huffs but refrains from muttering as she wills her freezing feet to follow him.

He swings open the door of a large contraption. It's similar to an olive green airplane, but instead of thin wheels for takeoff, it has huge tracks with thick, evenly spaced treads. She imagines it crawls, but why anyone would use that to fly is beyond her. Jace just smirks, steadying her as she climbs the ladder into the cockpit.

He clambers up behind her, retracting the ladder and closing a glass dome over their heads. Heat blows from a fan by her toes, and for that, she is grateful. There is a strange playfulness in Jace's expression as he takes the controls, a strange, circular wheel. He seems comfortable though, coaxing the Giant Turtle—as she's decided to call it—forward. It does indeed crawl, slowly meandering its way toward the glass barrier.

"What are you doing?" She'd meant for it to come out smoothly, but panic floods her words as he pushes a button that makes the glass walls part. The Giant Turtle creeps through the opening, the treads digging into the lush grass of the outside world.

"I'm showing you Idris." Arcs of light sweep in front of their path, emanating from the machine to guide them through the dense foliage. She presses her hand to the window, wondering just how many times she's wished to leave the bunker, to explore the lively jungles and murky oceans of her planet.

To her knowledge, nobody leaves the bunker unless travelling by sky, but here Jace is, completely at ease as he leads the Turtle along already laid tracks.

She can't see the stars beneath the canopy of trees, but the moonlight filters through, sparkling against the leaves as they wave in the wind. She's seen pictures of the Old World before the desolation. She knows what it looked like, with its towering buildings and network of roads. This is different, strangely calming, so unlike the steel and concrete she knows so well.

"Jace," she breathes as something with colorful wings flutters by, checking out the foreign object. "I've always wanted to see my world." It's barely above a whisper, but she's sure he heard her, a smile pulling at the corners of his lips as he guides them around a corner.

The trees give way to a beach, much like the ones she tells her window to display. Her hand reaches over, curling tightly around Jace's bicep as he heaves the machine to a stop. "Well, come on then," he finally says after they sit in silence. Her eyes widen, still trained on the waves lapping gently at the sandy shore.

"We can… _breathe_ out there?" she gasps, fumbling for words. She's always been told the atmosphere is not yet ready to sustain human life. How much of her life has been a lie? How much has been to keep her incarcerated in the bunker, afraid of the world outside.

He reaches for her hand from the ground below, helping her down the ladder again. The ground squishes under her feet, the sand displacing as she presses her weight onto it.

And then Jace is running.

His hand reaches around to tug his shirt over his head, casting it into the sand where he leaves his footprints behind. His handsome face takes on an expression of pure bliss as he extends it toward the white light of the moon, crashing into the water and disappearing beneath the depths.

Her heart leaps into her throat until she sees him resurface, shaking out his golden curls. "Come on, Clary!"

She's already crossed the sand, letting the warm water nip at her toes as Jace splashes ten feet out. He bobbles in the waves, floating on his back. As if sensing why she's apprehensive, Jace shouts to her once more. "This water is salty enough that you'll just float." He pushes himself under again, coming up for air another fifteen feet away.

Throwing caution to the wind, she walks up to her waist, so mesmerized by the reflections rippling on the surface that she doesn't hear Jace sneak up behind her. She squeals as his arms snake around her waist, taking a quick gasp of air before he pulls her under with him.

She pops up, her body buoyant in the water. She giggles uncontrollably, unconcerned with the way her nightgown sticks to her body, the dark circles of her breast visible even in the low light.

The playful smile falls from Jace's face immediately, his strong hands dragging her body flush against his. She can see the lust in his hooded eyes, the complete and utter desire he has for her despite her flaws and shortcomings. She can feel her own body warming as his fingers smooth down her spine, stopping just above her ass and pressing them closer together. His other hand cups her neck, ensuring that she can look nowhere but at him.

She pulls her lip between her teeth, trying to control the pants that want to escape her lungs as Jace's honey eyes touch every part of her body. She's never felt this wanted—this _needed_ —before.

She gasps into his mouth when his lips tentatively brush across hers, a warm burn like whiskey building in her chest as she finally lifts her arms from where they dangle uselessly at her sides, tangling her fingers into his wet curls.

His kiss tastes of salt, but his lips are soft, sure in their movements as he nips at her lips, twisting his fingers into her hair to deepen their kiss. She opens her mouth to him when he asks, unable to stop the fire from spreading outward, reaching her fingertips and toes before numbing her mind entirely, forcing her to simply feel the way Jace was kissing her, holding her.

And suddenly, she is spinning away from him, floating toward shore on a wave that had knocked them apart.

Jace merely chuckles, wading in to her and taking up her hand. She doesn't shy away as he kisses her temple, wrapping a warm towel around her shoulders before plopping down into the sand to watch the imminent sunrise.

X.O.X.O.X

"Bellefleur!" he barks at the silver-haired boy who is prodding the tip of his seraph blade with his finger. The boy's hazel eyes snap to his, an impish grin slicing across his face as he shifts to hold the sword in proper position.

Usually he loved his Twelves—the eager, freshly marked youth of Idris—but today, his focus is elsewhere. The princess is fairly well trained for a secret Shadowhunter, much more so than even his own eighteens, who are usually set to graduate from demon hunting to the military. "Parry!" he instructs, pacing before the collection of thirty children as they duck and dodge imaginary weapons. His hands are clasped behind his back, posture erect as his steadies his voice.

Weakness and informality is for the untrained. He has to radiate strength, to instill fear into these children so they will follow his guidance. "Jab!" There are various grunts and swooshes echoing off the cavernous walls as they take unbalanced swings at their fictitious enemies. If he didn't need to remain so unnerved by their actions, he would laugh.

Children always seem to have such big heads, completely disproportionate with their flimsy bodies. They bobble around, ready to tip over in the slightest of breezes. Yet the Shadowhunters teach them to yield knives, to kill demons and enemies alike, to hunt and to prey. "At ease." The children, who have no knowledge of what it means to be _at attention_ , continue to amble around as they were before, excitedly chattering about their rune and codex classes, oblivious to Jace's surprise guest.

Jace jerks his head in a silent greeting to his brother, who stops before him. Alec's deep blue eyes are steady as he retrieves the bow strapped across his back, nocking an arrow and leveling it at the center of Jace's forehead. The blond in question unleashes a devilish smirk as his students settle, their chatter replaced by small gasps at the scene before them.

"Shadowhunters," Jace addresses his class without taking his eyes from Alec's, "who is at the advantage?" Various answers ring out, but the overwhelming response seems to choose Alec. His black hair shines blue in the bright training room lights, his arms laced with the runes of accuracy and agility. Alec barely has time to blink before Jace draws his blade, landing a kick to knock Alec's beloved bow to the side.

His brother is not done fighting yet. Hooking the bow across his back once more, Alec whispers to his blade. It blazes to life in his hands, momentarily blinding Jace to the fight. He is able to block one of Alec's attacks just in time, the clanking of metal reverberating off the walls.

Fighting has always been exhilarating, an outlet for boredom, excitement, and anger alike. But fighting with Clary had been euphoric, a delicate dance between the two. Neither wanting to dominate, but neither wanting to lose. With Alec, Jace barely has to think about landing a kick in his chest, cornering him before poking the digging the tip of his blade into the skin right above his heart.

He is the alpha male, the leader of the Shadowhunters. He does not fall victim to anyone, including his own brother. "Lesson number one," he shouts over his shoulder, clasping Alec's hand to pull him away from the wall, "never underestimate your opponent."

There is a whirring noise beside him, and Jace feels a familiar sting in his arm. An arrow embeds itself in the wall across the room, one spot of blood dripping down the curve of Jace's bicep. "Lesson number two: never underestimate your opponent." Alec is the one owning the smirk as the class is dismissed, loudly bumbling their way to the exit to continue to the Institute, eager to learn the way of the Nephlim.

"How are things with Clary?" Alec asks smoothly, hurling a knife at the target across the room. His accuracy rune proves true once more as it tucks itself into the bullseye. Jace shrugs, using his towel to wipe the blood from his arm after he's pulled it from his flesh. Alec rolls his eyes, throwing toward the next target. "Dude, you're marrying her in a few days, things better be more than a shrug."

"What do you want me to say, man? That she's the Rose to my Jack? The cracker to my cheese? The Captain America to my Iron Man? You know they were so a thing," he adds at Alec's odd expression. "I've only known her for two and a half weeks. How am I supposed to know if I'll want her for a lifetime?"

This time Alec shrugs. "I'd like to think that you'd just _know_. I mean, there probably won't be fireworks or electric sparks, but there will definitely be warmth."

"You basically just equated love to pissing your pants, Allie." Alec forces a laugh, but Jace doesn't notice as he pulls his sweatshirt over his head, tucking his golden curls into the dark hood. "Maybe I can just fake it until I mean it," he qualifies, dropping his shoulders as if he doesn't really care.

But Jace does care. His nonchalance is another one of his mechanisms, used for coping with things he can't control. Not because he has no choice in marrying Clary, but because he can't stop the things her mere presence does to him. It's like he can't breathe without her, like he's been trapped in a cave and now he's finally seen the sun. His body yearns for her when they are apart, his heart calling to her through the void.

But he must ignore it. Because he is a warrior, and warriors aren't worthy nor capable of compassion and love. Emotions are distractions. Emotions are weakness. And Jace must be strong.

"Whatever works, I guess," Alec responds, and the pair shares a curt nod. They both know they're lying, but neither about what.

X.O.X.O.X

"My parents want to meet you," Jace announces as he bursts unceremoniously through their adjoining door. His face is flushed, his hair brilliantly tousled in the low afternoon light. He flops into the armchair beside her armoire propping his feet against her bed. She bats them down, the sketchpad previously propped in her lap slipping onto the quilt beside her. Her fingers splay across it, shielding her recreation of the artificial sunset captured in the reflection of her mirror.

"Isn't that supposed to happen _before_ the engagement?" she responds, forceing her attention to the page before her as she settles the sketchbook once more against her knees. She's almost curled around it, protecting the secrets within its folds. Jace can gaze upon her colorful landscapes until his heart's content, but she has no desire for him to know what's lay beyond that. Countless images of a beautiful angel, descending from blinding skies, full wings of golden feathers stretched out like the sun itself behind him. Sometimes this man is a fierce warrior, coated in Marks as molten as his eyes, glowing through the blackest nights. Sometimes he's a passionate lover, wings wrapped around a woman in a compassionate embrace. This angel always resembles Jace. His eyes, his halo of hair, his strong jawline, and rippling muscles—this man appears beneath her pencil without her permission, his flat eyes filled with so much longing and longing, like he wishes only to jump from the page and pin her to the bed. Psychology says this is actually what she craves, to become one with the smirking boy sneakily putting his feet on her bed once more.

Reality tells her he just has a nice face to draw.

"Yeah, well this arrangement is anything but traditional." She can't help the true smile cracking across her face at the flat way he says it, tipping her gaze up to see a crooked grin easing its way onto his face. "What do you say?" She doesn't respond in an appropriate amount of time, causing Jace to surge forward with words. "My mom is a fantastic cook, and my dad will probably try to hustle you at cards, but he always gives the money back. And my sister goes all weak-kneed whenever you are mentioned, as does Max, and well, Alec…is Alec." Jace's rambling is strange to her, causing her to pause the sweeping arc's she's drawing to create a new horizon. He's usually so smooth with words, so brilliant at threading together words to create sentences that are as fluid as they are fluent and as gripping as they can be insulting. Is this what family does to people? Jace's grin has been stretching higher onto his cheeks as he speaks, his eyes falling from hers as they peer into his own memories.

She cannot relate to this experience, cannot begin to comprehend what might be running through his mind. She's never had a big family. For most of her existence, it's just been Luke and her. Dinners were mostly silent, filled with awkward conversation and arguments. She doesn't feel her body getting warm all over as she speaks of him or her mother, eyes glowing with unconditional love. She's never had these playful memories Jace is still rumbling on about, never being allowed to ease her poise to have much fun. She can see that Jace is changing that in her, having her laughing during their training sessions, slouching in the chair as they drink their morning coffee together. He's slowly but surely knocking down every defense system her father has instructed her to put in place, specifically to not let herself get hurt. "I think I'd like that," she finds herself saying, desiring nothing more than to glimpse into that lifestyle, see what can make even the toughest man's face light up with childish joy.

He claps his hands together, lifting himself from the chair. "Great, because it's happening tonight."

"Tonight?!" she stars, slamming her sketchpad shut, abandoning her drawing as all thoughts of familial happiness fly from her mind. "I've barely time to get ready."

"You look great, princess," he winks. She huffs. Mostly at the way that nickname shoots electricity through her stomach.

"Not all preparations are physical." Jace nods in subtle agreement, ever the war general he was bred to be.

"Yeah, you might need to mentally ready yourself for the onslaught of crazy about to hit you." She rolls her eyes but her smile betrays her. "You know how to play Euchre, right?" Her nose scrunches slightly.

"An heir hardly has time to learn the mechanics of silly games."

"Silly games!" he scoffs, plopping down beside her on the bed and withdrawing a deck of cards from the pocket of his dark jeans. This is the first time in a while that she's seen him in casual clothes, his usual attire like that of a Rebel awaiting the Empire's attack. "It's a history lesson! A great piece of our ancestors before we migrated to the stars!" He's shuffling them now, the backs imprinted with intertwining runes, mimicking those curling around Jace's fingers and twisting up his forearms.

She watches quietly as he deals their hands, listens in silence as he patiently explains to her the rules and gently corrects her mistakes. As it turns out Euchre is pretty fun, and she even beat Jace after a few games, claiming victory in the form of cookies Jace has hidden in his bedroom drawer.

"Now you're ready to meet the Lightwoods." Her eyes widen fractionally as he rises from the bed. She feels cemented to the spot, even as Jace turns to see that she's followed. "What's the hold up?" The way he says it doesn't ignite anger in her as it usually would. Instead it causes words to tumble from her mouth.

"What if they don't like me?" Jace laughs, looking at the ceiling as he shakes his head.

"Well, there's not much they can do about it now." Surprisingly, his bluntness hacks through her fears, giving her the mobility to slip on some shoes and follow behind him.

X.O.X.O.X

"You've never seen peanut butter and jelly?!" Jace's little brother cries in horror as Clary questions what he's eating, his sticky fingers clamped tightly around the bready as he extends it kindly in her directions. "Try it," he insists, but Jace intercepts his hand, taking a bite from the corner to the boy's dismay.

"She doesn't want your sandwich, Max," he garbles around his mouthful, wiping his lips on the back of his hand. The little boy's nose scrunches in faux distaste, his chocolate eyes sparkling behind his glasses as they dance between the pair. It's easy to see how this boy adores Jace, his gaze always following Jace's movements, his body mimicking the exact motions. The boy already has a few Marks lacing up his arms, and undoubtedly his skin will soon match the man's beside her.

"I think Clary can decide for herself, Jace." The firmness in his little voice melts her heart as he once again holds the food out to her, grinning in triumph as Clary accepts the offer. Her eyes land steadily on Jace's as she deliberately avoids where Jace had eaten and bites from Max's side instead.

"This is delicious," she tells the little boy as she marvels at the simple delicacy.

"You'll spoil her dinner, Max," Jace chastises as Clary finishes half the sandwich in spite. But Jace's golden eyes are dancing with laughter as he ruffles the dark mop atop Max's head. The little boy protests, but Jace's eyes land on another figure. "Father," he greets the man with a swift bob of his head. It's casual, but the boy's posture stiffens, almost as if he's a soldier at attention. It's in Jace's nature.

Clary's seen Robert Lightwood before. He's a man with a strong presence, much like her father. If he's in the room, you can't ever look away without feeling like you're missing out on something. His eyes are the dark blue of the sky just after sunset, his hair the color of midnight. He's always scrutinizing, his chin coated with thick hairs his fingers like to stroke as he ponders the situation around him. Clary believes he never would have made the Shadowhunter elite. He's too slow, too contemplative. His enemies would surely kill him before he even lands a blow. Yet he built Jace to be the strongest, most coveted warrior on Idris.

"Ah, Princess Clarissa!" a woman with a kind face appears, wiping her hands swiftly on a cloth towel.

"Please, call me, Clary." She allows herself to be pulled into this unfamiliar woman's tight embrace. It's a motherly action, one Clary hasn't experienced for years and can't return appropriately, as indicated by the slightly awkward expression as they part.

"And call me, Maryse. Jace has told us so much about you." She says these words with a tight-lipped smile, like she's trying to conceal exploding laughter. Clary turns to Jace who responds with a sheepish shrug.

"I just said that you don't like me." Maryse lets one laugh slip from her lips before sealing them again.

"Jace can be such a baby when he doesn't get his way," she qualifies, ruffling her oldest son's hair, much to his dismay. "Come with me, Clary. Isabelle is so excited to meet you." A glance tossed over her shoulder shows Clary that Jace is too busy fixing his mussed hair into the seemingly effortless tousle it's usually in to notice her disappearance.

The Lightwoods won't kidnap her. Right?

She's led through the twists of an industrial hallway so common in the bunker, strange sconces in the shape of lions' heads pouring pools of light at their feet before she's swept into the heat of a kitchen.

She's greeted with the strong aroma of pesto and cheese before she feels more strange eyes on her. "You must be Isabelle," Clary says finally, feeling uncomfortable under her dark, scrutinizing gaze for far too long. "I'm pleased to meet you." The girl's cocked her head to the side, brows furrowed.

"I didn't expect you to be so…cute." Clary can't hide the surprise in her expression. "I mean, I've seen you around before, but anyone willing to be bitchy to Jace seems like they should be…tougher."

"Thanks?" Her squeaking reply causes a smile to break across the woman's statuesque face.

"Any enemy of Jace is a friend of mine," she asserts, emerging from behind the countertop with a flour-stained apron. "Trust me, that boy is too used to getting exactly what he wants."

"So I've been told," Clary responds, her eyes flickering toward a smirking Maryse. They don't have much more time to talk before Maryse ushers them from the kitchen and to the dining table, promising the evening will be filled with endless embarrassing stories about Jace.

It doesn't disappoint.

"Do you remember that time I cut Jace's hair?" Isabelle asks to no one in particular, her for suspended halfway to her mouth as if the story had just interrupted every other thought.

"He cried every time he looked in the mirror for weeks!" Maryse finished, adoration and mischief flooding her expression. Jace doesn't even blush, taking it all in stride.

"I was mourning for all the women that loved my hair…and Isabelle's toy dolls."

"I can't believe you popped all their heads off," Izzy responds crossly, finally popping the food into her mouth.

"Remember when Jace wouldn't sleep without a seraph blade in his hand?"

"We were all so concerned for his safety, and every time we'd try to sneak it from his grasp, he'd wake up and threaten to stab us with it."

Robert does not participate in these nostalgic moments, muttering things about how it's because he's a soldier, or the warrior drove those parts of him away.

"What was that, Robert?" Maryse asks after her mumbles something following her story of Jace's confusion as to how Max got out of his mom's stomach.

"Nothing—"

"Spit it out," Jace says through gnashed teeth. She can see the anger in his face, a vein in his forehead popping out ever so slightly. The conversation had been so lighthearted, Clary had missed the growing tension between the pair. With Jace seated across from Clary and at Jace's right, he could hear every comment muttered under his father's breath.

"Our son should marry a Shadowhunter, Maryse. He's such a powerful soldier! And all for what? To produce _human_ children." Clary blushes fiercely, trying to cover up her embarrassment behind her napkin. Instead of spilling her secret to spite his father, Jace rises from his chair, his plate basically untouched. Hodge's dead eyes flash before her, as unemotional and steely as Robert's.

"Come on, Clary. I think we should leave." Clary stammers for a response, but Jace is by her side in an instant, pulling her chair out for her and grasping her hand to help her to her feet.

"You are a soldier, Jace. Don't let your emotions guide your decisions!" his father demands, but Jace just shakes his head, kissing his mother goodbye.

"It was pleasant to meet everyone," she stutters as she's tripping over her own feet to keep up with the seething man in front of her.

"No it wasn't," Jace hollers over his shoulder before slamming the door shut behind them. He's pinching the bridge of his nose, but it does little to settle the heaving of his shoulders in labored breaths.

"It's fine, Jace," she insists as they retrace the path toward their bedrooms. Jace scoffs, giving her no other reply. He's right. It isn't fine.

He pulls her to a stop outside her door, his hands warm against her upper arms. "I'm sorry. That was a disaster." He forces a laugh, but Clary doesn't laugh with him. "My dad…he's _very_ …opinionated."

"You could have just told him, Jace." He shrugs.

"It's not my secret to tell."

She bites her lip, dropping her gaze to her feet. She'd never expected Jace Herondale to be so moralistic, to care for others besides himself. "Goodnight, Jace," she says finally, brushing past him before he can say anything more to confuse these feelings inside her.

* * *

 _Well, isn't that sweet? Drop me a review!_

All My Love, seriously every last fucking drop

~BallinBlonde21


	7. Too Late Now

_Hello, Lovelies! I have four days left in this semester and then finals! I'm very stressed, so I would really appreciate if you would leave me reviews or PM me about my story to pick me up throughout the week! Enjoy!_

 _The Shadow Wars_

 _Chapter 7: Seal the Deal_

 _Songs:_

 _Part 1: Missing You - All Time Low_

 _Part 2: Follow Your Arrow - Kasey Musgraves_

 _Part 3: Sit Still, Look Pretty - Daya_

 _Part 4: Undone - Haley Reinhart_

* * *

The familiar zing of metal on metal is comforting as Jace runs his blade along the sharpener, watching the dulled edge once again glint wickedly in the low light. His fists are tight, knuckles white as he works, jaw set in raw anger. His father had stepped out of line, accusing Clary of not being worthy because she might be a _mundane_. Isn't this the war he's fighting in? One that dissolves the ancient oppressions of those not birthed from Raziel? One that unites the warring populations and finally brings peace and security to Idris and the surrounding worlds? Robert trained him for this war personally, and now he's shown that he no longer believes in its cause.

The lights above him begin to flicker, his reflection winking up at him from the blade in his hands, before the room explodes in blinding blue light, his face alien as it peers up at him. "Magnus Bane," Jace greets without turning around. The warlock sweeps into the room with a velvet cloak billowing behind him.

"General," he replies with a curt nod, the thin slits of his pupils trained on Jace, following his ministrations with the weapons strewn at his feet. The toxic blue light fades back into the dim yellowness as Jace places his blade across his knees. "I'm here on king's business." Jace merely grunts. The king can only bring orders for a war the general himself is no longer sure he can believe in. Maybe the motives behind these battles are not as pure and just as he once thought. If Robert so vocally expressed the superiority he feels Shadowhunters hold, why would he lay his life down for universal equality? "You've developed doubts about this war, haven't you?" It isn't an accusation, just an observation, but Jace's heart beats unevenly. He's prided himself in being a closed book, yet this warlock can read his deepest thoughts in a few minutes alone with him.

"The cause we're fighting for has become abstract," he muses, returning to the maintenance of his weapons. There's no point in hiding his true feelings from this man. Magnus would only use magic to crystalize his opaqueness. "I thought we were battling for your people, but now it seems we might just be fulfilling the king's personal agenda." Magnus hums, nodding thoughtfully with a manicured finger pressed against his chin.

"I choose to view it this way, young Shadowhunter. These battles may be for the king's personal gain, but they can be used to further the acceptance of my people. They can show that Downworlders and Shadowhunters can rise together, stronger and better than as two separates. Make it _your_ cause, whatever it may be."

Jace laughs humorlessly, looking up at the sparkling man from where he sits. "You are just a pawn in his twisted games, warlock. Do you even realize that? When his own vendetta is completed, he can erase all the progress we've made. He can erase you completely."

"The king is a just man. He's not manipulative nor heartless like ancient rulers I've faired. Equality may be a subordinate reason for the war, but it will still benefit from victory."

"Lest you forget the War of the Skies," Jace spits spitefully. He's seen more war than any Shadowhunter under thirty should ever see, the first slaughtering his family, the second his humanity. "Shadowhunters were slain where they stood by radicals of your kind. I know many Downworlders wish only for acceptance, but it's not easily forgotten that many once dreamed of our eradication."

Magnus ponders this momentarily. "You've already forgotten the Mortal War, then, when Shadowhunters and Downworlders united against one common enemy, rising victorious."

"The existence of these difference species is a deadly game of back and forth! We're together peacefully; then we're at war. When does it stop? When will our leader prioritize peace over power?"

"I can see why the king's chosen you as his successor." For once, someone stuns Jace to silence. He'd believed himself to be chosen for betrothal to the princess because of his military profile, because of his success as a general, because of his childhood on Alicante. What's not added up is that he brings with him a new set of enemies to endanger the princess, an added level of peril to her already impressive repertoire of foes. Never had he once imagined the move was political in that he would rise to power, that the king believed he had the makings of the next world leader. "Enough debate," the warlock claps, his somber expression turned cheerful, a look not usually accompanied by war orders. "I've been tasked with designing your marriage robes."

Jace rolls his eyes. "I'd much prefer to have each of my extremities removed slowly," he groans as the warlock produces a measuring tape from somewhere in the confines of the sparkly shirt he wears.

"I'm thinking we mix mundane and Shadowhunter traditions," Magnus mumbles, taking measurements of Jace's—still attached—limbs. He completely ignores the weak complaints of the warrior and bends him to his will, not bothering to ask for Jace to spin and stretch, instead yanking and pulling him in all directions. "Black tuxedo with golden accents possibly?"

"I could kill you, you know," Jace wonders aloud. "Probably in a second flat." The warlock, unperturbed by Jace's threats, continues to mutter about the wrenches in his plans—Clary's fire engine hair being one of them. "Make sure it has pockets to hold my weapons." Magnus makes a _tsking_ noise, but Jace has become lost in his memories of red curls, soft between his fingertips, fierce in a fight, messy in the morning. He'd never much liked women with anything other than blond, straight locks, shining like a cascading waterfall in the bunker's lights, but Clary's hair is enthralling. It seems to morph to her emotions—flaming when she's angry, bouncing when she's excited.

"General?" Magnus inquires, giving Jace a strange look as he returns to the present. The warlock is halfway out the door, casting a long backward glance. "I believe in your cause."

Jace nods, but Magnus has already disappeared into the hallway, leaving him alone with his knives and his doubts.

X.O.X.O.X

"Isabelle!" The princess's sharp call catches the dark-haired noble off guard. She whirls around, her eyes trailing the redhead's motions as she chases her past the fountain in the courtyard. Sunlight pours into the room from above, glinting off the metallic accents of Isabelle's black gear. The princess's pale green skirts are knotted in her fists as she struggles to catch up, rogue curls flying around her. Isabelle's stopped walking completely, all thoughts of training with Jace forgotten as she arches a perfect eyebrow in Clary's direction.

"Princess," Isabelle says, dropping into a respectful curtsey, though her eyes are sparking with rebellion. Clary rolls her eyes ungracefully, reaching out and hauling the woman back to a standing position. Isabelle is once again confused by the princess's lack of traditionalism. The sun paints the princess's pale skin in red freckles, a feature Isabelle believed would mar her own skin but brings out the originality and beauty in the one before her.

"Please, don't do that ever again," Clary laughs, but Isabelle does not join in. She is conserved, cautious, especially after her father verbally attacked her. Clary's expression falters slightly, but returns when she claps her hands, as if remembering exactly what she'd wanted to say. "Would like you to attend my dress fitting?" The woman's eyes light up like the stars themselves as she throws her thin arms around the smaller girl.

"Are you kidding me? I thought you were going to like…sentence me to execution!" Clary puts the girl at an arm's distance, rolling her eyes. "After what my father said to you? I'd never want to come around my family again." Clary waves her hand dismissively through the air, remembering how Jace's words that night had given her butterflies, how she'd had to leave his presence just to maintain a coherent thought.

"I _loved_ your family. And I'd love for you to be my bridesmaid." It is strange for her to act so feminine, to concern herself with her marital affairs, to insert herself into party planning. She tells herself it's all for her father's benefit, but the lie sounds weak to even her own mind. She's long yearned for female companionship. With the loss of her mother at a young age and her father's protective eye, she never really had any girlfriends in her life. Isabelle could be her chance at that, another stab at normalcy. "Let's go!"

Clary surprises Isabelle by leaping on the public transit to visit the tailor's sector, her signature curls alerting the townspeople to her royal presence. Isabelle had expected the princess to use her status, to ignore those around her with an air of superiority, but she's always full of surprises. She listens to each story they tell. She lets children sit on her lap and kiss her cheeks. She waves goodbye as she exits the bus. "You are nothing like I imagined," Izzy muses as Clary leads her to Magnus's door, rapping on it with a closed fist. An embarrassed smile stretches across the princess's face as she's about to ask what she'd thought about her. Instead, Magnus pulls open the door, granting the girls access with a sweeping gesture.

"Welcome to Chateau de Bane!" Ancient artifacts cover every inch of his home, indicating just how old Magnus really is. He'd existed long before the migration to the stars. He knew of ancient people and civilizations. And his passion lay in fashion. Currently, he is swathed in endless bouts of purple velvet, from his tailor slacks to the top hat on his head, he looks like a movie theater cushion. Though neither girl would ever say that aloud. "Maia sent over a few ideas for your dress, but they seemed less than enthused."

Clary laughed, a relaxed sound that also surprises Isabelle. She's so comfortable in other people's homes, even without guards at her side. "I've been protesting this wedding tooth and nail. But father insists it is still happening."

"Are you leaning toward traditional Shadowhunter, traditional mundane, or just something different altogether."

"Traditional Shadowhunter," Isabelle interjects before Clary has the opportunity to answer. "Gold would look fantastic with her complexion." Magnus squints his cat eyes, appraising this statement. He offers a solemn nod of approval before assaulting her with a series of cloth swatches. Isabelle shifts into fashion mode and takes over, not bothering with Clary's opinion. The princess had chosen the female Lightwood for this exact reason. Isabelle would know how to plan for a wedding and would choose something to please the king, something Clary had been seriously failing in lately.

"I think we're all done here!" Magnus announces, startling Clary from the nap she's been taking on his corduroy couch. She allows Magnus to kiss her cheeks before pulling him into a tight embrace. Her relationship with this warlock was strange, but strong. He was the only one that knew of her true heritage, a secret he's not only kept but helped her keep as well.

"Thank you, Magnus. For everything."

"Anything for you, Cupcake," he tells her, releasing her from his grasp and stepping back. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have some anti-warthog elixirs to make. Some fae have been having a bit of fun with the lax enforcement at the borders." Clary salutes him and links her arm through Isabelle's, knowing that even if this marriage turned out to be a total sham, she'd still have friends to make life interesting.

X.O.X.O.X

"Shouldn't you be catching up on your beauty sleep?" he inquires, quirking an eyebrow as she grits her teeth, pushing her body off the floor in time with his counts.

"Are you saying you don't find me beautiful, dearest?" she bites out, her arms quivering beneath her weight. He chooses not to respond and instead calls her to her feet. He extends one of his blades toward her, and she calls it to life. It casts a strange blue glow across Jace's features, turning his playful expression malicious as he draws his own weapon.

"If I kill you, do we still have to be wed?" She's dodging his attacks skillfully, unlabored by her earlier workout. Jace snorts, blocking her jab easily with his sword.

He tsks. "Thinking you can get rid of me so easily." He leaps over her, pressing his blade to her throat from behind. "Ancient Hindu used to practice _Sati_ , where the widows would commit suicide on their husband's pyre—"

"Good thing we won't be married yet," she hisses, spinning out of his grip and pressing the tip of her blade into the hollow of his throat. He laughs, pushing it aside easily as he continues to advance on her. She's since stopped attempting to lose him in the rafters, finding he is much more agile than her and able to jump greater distances, making height _his_ advantage.

"How your words wound me!" His free hand flutters to his throat, but even joking, his eyes are focused.

Clary has to acknowledge that there's something sexual about training with Jace. Maybe it's the way his dark t-shirt clings to every part of his body, rippling as his strong, hard muscles flex and contract. Maybe it's the way his molten eyes trail her, not quite like his prey but like his fantasy. Maybe it's the way he handles her gently, even when holding her life in his hands. She's suddenly aware of the way her heart is racing, and it's not from exertion.

Jace has her pinned against the wall, every inch of him pressed against every inch of her. Heat flows off him and directly between her thighs as his tongue darts out to lick his lips. Sweat gathers at his forehead and at the ends of his curls, but his eyes are alive, burning holes into her wherever they land.

She kicks hard at his knee, spinning from his trap as he stumbles—only once, though, to his credit. "I don't want to do this!" she hollers, throwing her arms up in the air. The outburst makes Jace stop in his tracks, lifting from his attack stance and lowering his weapon. "I don't want to become this…this woman who sits by as other men fight her battles. This is _my_ planet, Jace! I want to claim Raziel's blood and fight for my people."

Understanding registers in his eyes as her words reach him. "You think I'm going to reduce you to some housewife, Clary?" His voice is gentle, but he can't help the tinge of humor in it. "I don't think even I could stop you from doing what you set your mind to."

"I _won't_ watch other people die for me." Jace laughs, crossing the mats to her and placing his hands on her shoulders.

"Did you even hear me? Nobody in hell could ever hold you back." She looks up, just in time to see his knife arc through the air. The blade is knocked from her hand as she finds herself pressed against the wall, Jace's weight holding her down as her chest heaves into his. That damned smirk is tugging at his lips as he releases her. "See you later, princess."

The sense of loss she feels as she watches his hips sway in the distance disgusts her. She waits a few minutes after he leaves to slip into the hallway, hoping nobody is awake in her bedroom before she can shower.

X.O.X.O.X

"You look straight from a story book, Princess Clary," Maia gushes over the edge of her clipboard as maids ruffled out the bottom tulle of her gown. She holds back an unladylike snort, pushing a rogue curl from her forehead as several sets of hands worked behind her to pin them at the back of her head. Fairytales only exist in the minds of children, and she no longer is a child. If this was her fairytale, she'd be out among the warriors, fulfilling her blood's purpose, the creed of Raziel, side-by-side with all his children. But alas, she lets her eyes fall closed as the women bustle around her, brushing various powders onto her lids and cheeks in preparation for her to be wed.

Her fairytale doesn't even include a prince, let alone an arrogant general who refuses to acknowledge her existence in the presence of others. His kindness is limited to her victories in the training room before the sun has even risen on the galaxy, his compassion to her various wounds acquired from such training. He has not once tried to kiss her since the night outside the bunker, not once attempted to show any signs that he might be interested in her.

But that is not the purpose of this ceremony. There is no love between them, no desire or even friendship. It is a shared acceptance of what must be done to improve their planet, Jace serving his civil duty as a war general and hers as a princess. Whether they want to suck on each other's faces until their lips fall off is no part of the arrangement. The diamond on her finger catches the light and winks at her mockingly, knowing what is to come.

"Knock, knock," a deep voice resonates from the behind the closed door as cold hands clasp a chain around her neck, a heavy diamond falling between her breasts. Breasts that Jace will see later as they trace the irremovable runes onto each other's chests. That is as far as she will go, though. There will be no consummation of the marriage, no sleeping in the same bed, no smiles or kisses.

Her thoughts are snapped back to the present as a large hand is pressed against the small of her back, though she can barely feel the pressure through her beaded corset. "Dad," she breathes. As much as she hates this marriage, she knows why it must be done. She recognizes it as a very well thought out and beneficial plan. She is not mad at her father for making her go through with this. The sympathy in Luke's eyes tells her he knows it too.

"It's go time," Maia announces, looping her arm through Clary's and all but dragging her from the makeshift dressing area. The ballroom doors are shut, and Clary wipes her sweaty hand down the front of her golden dress, knowing a boy with matching honey eyes awaits her on the other side.

"You are absolutely stunning, Princess." Clary hadn't even noticed Isabelle until she spoke, extending the bouquet of pale pink flowers to Clary. Her body is swathed in a deep, emerald green, flowing over her curves like a waterfall, intricate braids looping her hair onto her head. Stunning is not a word Clary can use to describe herself when situated beside a Lightwood. Even Alec, dressed in a pressed black suit with a green tie, radiates strength and beauty as his ice blue eyes crinkle with the hint of a smile. Maia probably should have thought about how meager the princess would appear next to these siblings, especially since they are the only members of her bridal party.

She can't return his expression as her stomach begins churning in apprehension. She is much too young to be wed, to settle down of her entire life, to birth children as a mere statement. Her heart attempts to take to flight through her chest, her lungs begging for more oxygen even as she pants in an attempt give it to them.

The King grips her elbow, his blue-grey eyes shimmering as they land upon her mother's golden circlet, nestled among her auburn curls. Encrusted with shimmering emeralds, it was a gift from Lucian himself on Jocelyn's wedding day. "Something borrowed," she whispers to him as his presence settles the marathon in her chest, quiet enough that nobody bustling about can hear. Luke kept the circlet in his chambers, tucked away in an ornate box filled with all her mother's precious jewels and possessions.

"You look so much like her," he manages, his voice hoarse as he holds back the tears. Clary wraps her fingers around his forearm, pale skin against his deep tan. It's the sincerest compliment she's received all day, the only one that _means_ anything to her.

"Too bad I didn't acquire her grace," she replies, already stumbling on her thin high heels even standing still. Luke smiles slightly, his grip on her tightening as Isabelle and Alec float through the doors.

"I promise not to let you fall." She focuses on her breathing as Maia and the guards pull the doors open fully, revealing the ornately decorated ballroom. It is swathed in shimmering green and gold fabric, a color scheme that works as much as it doesn't, a physical representation of the disharmony between the bride and groom as Luke marches her forward through an archway of pale flowers. _One. Two. One. Two._ She counts, inhaling and exhaling in time with the slow counts. She hasn't looked at him yet, knowing that capturing his gaze would make this all more real, remind her that this is actually happening.

Instead, she glances at the tearful crowd, gathered in packed seating to watch her union. She wonders if anyone has deduced that it is a sham, that she and the general are not in endless and hopeless love, that the tears pricking the edges of her kohl rimmed are not those of joy, but of loss—loss of her freedom, her dreams, herself.

Jace's mother sits in the front, a hand pressed against her heart as Clary nods subtly in her direction. Maryse looks overcome with joy, as if she'd never imagined a wedding for her son. Not that Clary can blame her. Jace is not the marriage type. He is a fighter through and through, minimizing his weaknesses and therefore his relationships. Robert sits stoic beside her, still in complete disapproval of this marriage. His opinion lies with the Shadowhunters, stating that Jace is a warrior and that a wife can only serve as a distraction. She feels him eyeing her in his peripherals, and she fends off a shiver.

There's an empty seat in the front for her mother, who should be here to guide her through this mess, to give her the advice she needs most right now. Suddenly, looking at Jace is a better option than letting the ghosts of her past creep in.

His eyes are already on her, heat soaking into her as they travel down the shimmering gown she wears. His hair is brushed, but still deliciously tousled, in stark contrast with the pressed black tuxedo stretching over his muscles. His golden tie draws attention to his warm eyes, a secret smile in them as she approaches.

He's too close and too far all at once, her heart beginning to pick up pace as she forgets her monitored breathing. And she can't stop it—can't run—as Luke pulls them to a stop. The minister stands offset from Jace, bowing to the King in a sweeping motion with his robes. "Who gives this woman to this man?" he asks, his voice barely a squeak above the excited hum of the gathered crowd.

"Lucian Garroway, King of Idris, Father of Clarissa Adele Garroway, doth give this woman to General Jonathon Christopher Herondale." His voice is strong, ringing out above the noise as he places her hand in Jace's. His fingers are warm as they curl around hers, but Luke's lips are warmer as they lean in to kiss her cheek. Loss consumes her as he goes to take his seat beside the empty one for Queen Jocelyn.

The world falls away as she steps up to the altar across from Jace, his hand squeezing hers as she pulls her eyes to meet his. A genuine smile adorns his face as the minister begins speaking. "You look beautiful," he mouths, drawing a blush to her cheeks, her heartbeat sending roaring blood through her ears. Somehow, she remembers to speak at all the right times, reciting the same words as Jace before pushing rings onto each other's fingers.

And then Jace's lips are pressed against hers, electricity shooting through her entire body as one of his arms moves around her back to pull her closer and the other pumps a fist into the air.

If anything, Jace is good at putting on a show.

* * *

 _Please review! I'll be running on coffee and anxiety for the next week and a half. Give me something to look forward to! 3 3 3 Maybe if you're really, really nice to me I'll give you another chapter within the next few days!_

 _All My Love!_

 _~BallinBlonde21_


	8. Sleeping Ruby

_I am 2 finals, 3 essays and 129497823 cups of coffee into this finals week already. Send. Help. Also, I couldn't think of a good title because my brain is friend, so...sorry. Anyways, this chapter is kind of one just showing how Clace is growing, but things will pick up very soon (devilish grin). Please enjoy! 3 3 Caffeine is making me weird._

 _The Shadow Wars_

 _Chapter 8:_ _Sleeping Ruby_

 _Songs:_

 _Part 1: Leave the Night On - Sam Hunt_

 _Part 2: I Just Want You - Cole Swindell_

 _Part 3: TALK ME DOWN - Troye Sivan_

* * *

Her laden footsteps follow slowly behind Jace, the heavy metal door of their new spousal apartment severing the view of the outside world. There was no rune ceremony, as the world is unaware the redhead is Nephlim, but there had been a celebration, complete with champagne and food and dancing. Clary's feet are in utter pain as she kicks off her heels, cursing her Jace for making her dance so much. The source of her loathing exhales heavily as he removes his suit jacket, hanging it over the back of a chair as he eyes the place. It's a generously sized apartment for the bunker. It opens to a mudroom, with earthy tiled floors that flood into the kitchen. Neutrals are a reoccurring theme, with the deep mahogany cabinetry and dark granite countertops. The only metallic resemblance of the industrial bunker are the stainless steel appliances. "Not too bad," he decides, his honey eyes finally finding hers as she hovers in the doorway.

Her dress has begun to poke and prod her in constricting ways, but she doesn't want to pass by Jace, worried he might take it as his cue to follow. He's shaking his head at her, the motion rustling his curls as a grin pulls across his lips. "You're afraid of me, are you?"

She adorns his signature smirk, lifting the edge of her dress to retrieve the blade sheathed at her ankle. "Not in the slightest." His gold eyebrows rise up as his lower lip juts out in a look of approval. Leaning over the chair, he digs in the seams of his coat, producing his own blade.

"I guess we are more similar than we thought." That draws out a laugh as she sets the knife on the countertop.

"Except I brought mine to kill you with." Jace wipes his smile on the back of his hand, hiding the deep chuckle that erupts out of him.

"Funny, I brought mine to kill me, too." He's placed his blade on the table beside him, now preoccupied with twisting his stele between his fingers. Clary had only been marked a few times in her life, all part of secretly being a Shadowhunter. She knows it burns like hell, that branding runes into skin is no easy feat. Jace must sense her apprehension because he puts the stele beside his seraph blade.

"Look, Clary—" he starts, but ends in a huff, clasping his hands before him and refusing to meet her gaze. Not that she wants him to look at her. The swimming depths of his aureate eyes make her blood warm, spreading heat to every part of her body. She can't think when they are on her, can't justify her actions when he watches her. Her body _likes_ his gaze. It responds to him, feeling so small and so completely whole in his eyes. And it wants more than that intangible feeling. She wants to be small against him, be whole with him. "I…I know that"—she snaps to attention as he beings to speak again—"we aren't in… _love_ …or anything, but I want to make the marriage runes special. I mean, we only get one chance to do it and…" He's rambling, and they both know it. His hair begins to suffer the wrath of his fingers as they knot into it, tugging helplessly at the strands.

"You don't want any regrets," she finishes for him, surprised that she feels the same way. She hadn't noticed it before, but her fear of the marriage runes doesn't stem from the pain or even the fact that Jace is the one giving them to her. It's that she doesn't want to screw it up, to look back one day and wish things would have happened differently.

"Could you just…change and meet me back here in twenty minutes?" It's an odd request, but the vulnerability in his voice has her nodding her head, traversing the foreign, carpeted stairs to the three bedrooms above. She's already claimed the first one on the right, having instructed Maia to send her stuff over during the ceremony.

A few minutes later, she's taken the pins down from her hair, nestling the circlet in the box with her other prized possessions. She's settled on a pair of leggings, deciding that if Jace is now her husband, he will have to deal with seeing her in things other than dresses. Besides, he's already seen her in training gear. She pulls an oversized hoodie on and uses the sleeve to wipe away makeup smudged under her eyes.

Her reflection catches her attention this time, her hands falling limply to her sides. How foolish people are to envy her appearance. She's hardly anything, with pasty skin and freckles dominating her cheeks. Her unruly curls spread out like a flame around her head, while her eyes are rimmed in red. She's merely an average girl, nothing compared to Isabelle or even Maia.

But she's a fighter—a Shadowhunter—and beauty doesn't make her strong. She has the will to stand up for what she believes in, lay her life down if that's what it takes.

She tears her eyes away from the mirror, slowly descending the stairs to where Jace is already waiting. He's changed, too, swapping his tuxedo for dark jeans hanging low on his hips and a black t-shirt. She now believes that he only owns black t-shirts. And for good reason, too. It brings out the darker, molten gold in his eyes, deepening the tan of his skin. The muscles of his back ripple as he reaches for her hand.

"Wait, where are we going?" she inquires as he leads her from the apartment, taking one step to her two as they twist down the labyrinth of halls. There's a smirk on his face when she finally realizes where they are, his hand already slipping from hers to yank open the door. Her heart picks up as he boosts her into the Giant Turtle, hauling himself up beside her.

The Turtle groans into motion, its tracks following trodden path in the green grasses of Idris. In the daylight, she can see so much more. Organisms of all types live in the dense forest, their ears pricking up as the Turtle slides by them. She can't help the giggle that escapes her as one hops onto a jagged stump, its nose wrinkling at the sight of them.

She catches Jace staring at her from her peripherals, but she ignores him and the feeling blossoming in her chest. She's surprised when the Turtle cruises by the beach, entering through a different opening in the forest.

And then she sees it. Small, nestled among the trees that twist ever higher toward the sky, looking as if it is right where it belongs, sits a cottage. Made of stones and mortar, it's nothing special, but Clary finds herself leaping from the vehicle as soon as Jace stops it. "Jace, what is this?" she asks, mesmerized by the actual glass windows.

"I built it…for you." He's rubbing the back of his neck in the way that he does, a tinge of red coating the apples of his cheeks as she turns her smile on him. "I thought that we could visit it, you know, when the bunker gets too stuffy."

Her chest squeezes, her resolution for no smiles falling through as she throws her arms around him. He catches her stiffly, but milliseconds later, he's holding her, too. The wind blows through his hair, and he smells like metal and cologne. "Let's check it out," he mutters gruffly, releasing her.

She smooths her hair, pressing forward when Jace steps aside to let her go first. A cobblestone pathway surrounded by wildflowers leads the way to a sapphire blue door. Pulling her lip between her teeth, she glances backward at Jace, pushing through the barrier as he urges her forward.

Her breath hitches as her eyes land on the space before her. It's only one room, with a threadbare sofa, a gas-burning stove, a lumpy bed with handmade quilts, and lace curtains, but it smells like home. She kicks her shoes off, the smooth wood floor warm against her feet.

She vaguely hears Jace pass by her, heading to the stove to boil some water for tea, but she's too enamored by the fact that her husband built a house for her. "I love it," she blurts, stunning herself to silence as his steamy gaze lands on hers.

"I'm glad," he replies curtly, returning to the task at hand. She's still standing in awe when Jace slides a warm mug between her splayed fingers, his now free hand coming up to tuck her curls behind her ear. She ducks her face to hide the color in her cheeks as Jace drops his hand, stuffing it into the pocket of his jeans.

She can see his stele sticking out of his back pocket, but she's not ready to be marked, to be fully and wholly linked to him, to a man she barely knows. "Tell me about your life," her mouth says before her mind. Jace smiles, though, pulling her down to the couch beside him. He's lit a fire in the fireplace before them, and it crackles, casting light across Jace's face as the sun falls below the horizon.

He indulges her, reciting nursery rhymes he learned in the sand dunes of Alicante. He speaks to her in ancient tongues he's learned from reading the old texts in the Accords Hall. She notices the way his nose wrinkles when he laughs, the way his smile reaches into his eyes. "I was Marked when I was only ten," he tells her, showing her the opened eye inked on the back of his hand. "The youngest Shadowhunter of my generation." His voice is hollow as he says it, less gloating and more disgusted. She has no chance to act on it, though, as he presses forward.

"I absolutely abhor ducks." He launches into a tale about the ghastly creatures from his homeland. "They're these cannibalistic birds with legs much too small for their bodies, and they make the most horrifying noise...Oh, and don't get me started on their beady eyes—" The night is opened with laughter instead of anxiousness. His hand brushes hers a couple of times, but he doesn't push her into anything. He listens patiently as she discusses the woes of etiquette class. And when she drifts off to sleep, he lets her lean on his shoulder, wrapping his warm arm protectively around her as the shadows fill the cottage.

X.O.X.O.X

The pale yellow light of dawn filters through the dirtied windowpanes, casting warm shadows across Clary's cheeks, adding a dewy glow to her creamy skin and highlighting the brilliant smattering of freckles climbing across her nose. She's nestled in a cocoon of blankets at the center of the bed, her fiery hair splayed out against the patchwork of the quilts, vibrant against the sun-bleached fabric. Her chest rises and falls rhythmically, hypnotizing as the soft snores fall from her parted pink lips. He's remarkably content to peer upon her from his position on the couch, hands propped behind his head as he dazedly wonders what it would feel like to have her body curled against his, the shadows of darkness disappearing to reveal her green eyes in the morning light, day after day after day.

His ring glints in the corner of his eye, hers tucked under the hand pillowing her cheek. The metallic circle does not bring with it the paralyzing weight that he once believed marriage to be. It's comforting when it's on, a reminder that he's been hand-selected to protect this woman, to cherish her even when she angrily pushes him away, to worship her like a true queen, to show her that amongst the evil in the world, beauty shines brighter. _She_ shines brighter.

Her chest rises out of rhythm as she startles herself awake with a hiccup, blinking around her in confusion. "Morning, Sleeping Ruby." Her eyes land on him, and she rolls them with a tired smile.

"Did you work on that one all night?" The quilts fall away from her torso as she frees her arms, stretching out her back and shoulders as the sunlight sparkles around her, giving her an angelic glow.

"Pretty much," he responds with a dazzling grin, reaching to the floor beside him where two mugs rest with dark liquid. "Black, like your soul," he says, extending one in her direction. Her fingers act without her brain's commands, wrapping around the warm ceramic and bringing it to her lips. He feels he can come to like these quiet mornings, to enjoy the sounds of Clary waking up, the warmth of the sun pooling against the floor, the sleepy smiles she gives her coffee cup when she thinks no one is looking.

 _I love you_. His mind tells him, eliciting an external, knee-jerk reaction of flinching, nearly sending hot liquid all over his pants. Luckily, Clary's too enthralled by the "holy substance that is caffeine" to bear witness to this embarrassing inner struggle.

He wants to love her. He wants to love her unconditionally and irrevocably and endlessly. He wants to be able to drown in her eyes, to lose himself in her soul. His heart craves this connection, pleads endlessly and tiringly for him to relinquish years of training each cell in his body to reject these feelings, to build an impenetrable fortress, to leave everyone behind. He'd taught himself that his love is a death sentence, and that further loss of those he loves would certainly cause him to crumble.

But Clary makes him forget these lessons. She pushes him to try harder, to fight smarter, to live fuller. Her eyes could talk him into any battle, her mouth into any explosion, her soul into the sun. She's sighing dreamily right now, watching the sun crest the tree-lined horizon, shooting streaks of light through the pale sky.

Any stranger can tell she's an artist simply by watching her. Her eyes always scan her surroundings—not in the preemptive way a Shadowhunter might, but in a way that says she's memorizing it, saving it for later when pencil may become one with paper and produce the sight once more. Her face lights up even at things that are not beautiful by society standards. A water-logged stump, a muddy footprint, a ketchup stain on the wall—these things may be deemed imperfect by many but for Clary, they are stories begging to be told, to be released from their earthly confines.

He wonders briefly what she sees in him, what story his scars tell her, what emotion his eyes convey. Is he art to her?

"Jace," Clary says sharply, like she's been trying to get his attention for some time. His eyes land first on her glittering wedding ring, then her face as she stares him down. "I have plans with Simon soon." Ah, yes, the evolutionary brain of the planet, the ascended Shadowhunter that hides behind books instead of blades—Clary's very best friend, apparently.

"We best be going, then," he tells her without a smile, weighted down by all these unwelcomed thoughts.

X.O.X.O.X

Darkness has long ago settled over the house, a moonless photo projected on the window doing little to drive away the demons that lurk in the shadows. Unafraid, Clary slips into the kitchen, happy when the freezer light cast a glow on the floor where she stands. She closes her fingers around a carton of ice cream, shivering in anticipation as the freezer softly thuds shut behind her.

"Are you going to share that?" The deep voice startles her enough to send her spoon flying, the metal clanging and clattering across the floor.

"Jace!" she yells in aggravation, turning around to retrieve the lost utensil. The chuckling man sits in a pool of yellow light, pouring over thick, dusty textbooks of war and strategy, penning notes in the margins. "Princesses don't have to share," she responds indignantly, digging her spoon into the chocolate dessert and slipping it into her mouth, suckling on the spoon seductively. It appears to have no effect on Jace, as he merely quirks and eyebrow and returns to his readings. "Wouldn't you rather be sleeping?" she asks after a beat of silence, plopping onto the couch beside him and curling her feet beneath her.

"There are a lot of things I'd rather be doing," the innuendo in his voice draws a blush to her cheeks as he turns a yellowing page, that smirk plastered permanently to his face. "Give me that," he laughs, reaching for the ice cream, which she promptly removes from his reach.

"No, none for meanies." Jace rolls his eyes.

"I am not a meanie, and we are not three." Clary presses her lips into a thin line, continuing to play keep away with the food. Finally, Jace resigns to skimming his fingertips along her stomach, sending her into a fit of squealing giggles, disarming her just enough to snatch both the spoon and the ice cream. "Okay, maybe I am a meanie," he says around a mouthful of chocolate ice cream. One of his dusty books had fallen onto the floor with a heavy thud, causing Clary to sneeze. When she settles, she finds him staring at her in amusement, the spoon propped halfway between the carton and his mouth.

She takes this as her opportunity to steal it back. "You're so beautiful," he whispers like his voice could break this trance his eyes have her in. His thumb is brushing across her cheek, his molten gaze heavy on hers as she clutches the ice cream closer, the cold seeping into her skin, long forgotten as Jace shifts closer.

Her heart hammers against her ribcage as her attention falls to his lips, the lower one captured gently between his teeth, as if pondering his next move. She knows what she wants him to do. She wants him to grab her face and pull her roughly against him. She wants him to massage her in all the right places, wants him to make her explode, wants to topple over the point of no return. Instead, his lips descend agonizingly slowly before dusting a kiss on the end of her nose, his breath ghosting over her face as he leans away once more. "Why aren't you sleeping?" Her thoughts are so jumbled that she curses him for his cool composure. One second he's radiating pure sex, and the next he's spooning that damn ice cream into his mouth again.

"I was hungry." He makes a noise that tells her that he doesn't buy it but otherwise has no comment. Truthfully, sometimes the idea of being the center of Valentine's prophecy plagued all her thoughts. The thought that she might be his target keeps her up most nights, and even a guard posted at her door does little to qualm her fears. Jace returns the ice cream to her hands, but she sets it on the coffee table, her appetite washed away.

"I'm just going to be reading if you'd like to sit with me." She nods, resting her head on the back of the sofa as Jace turns a page in his book, reading silently to himself while intermittently casting sideways glances in her direction, checking on her, protecting her.

And soon her head falls against his shoulder, her legs kicking up across the sofa. And then it drops into his lap, where his right hand plays idly with her curls, the soft sound of Jace turning the page and the steady thrum of his heart lulling her into a peaceful, dreamless sleep.

* * *

 _Thanks to all those that show interest in this story! You keep me motivated, and I am so grateful for all of my lovely readers! Review?_

All My Love!

~BallinBlonde21


	9. Not Top Gun

_Sorry that I've been MIA the past month! My keyboard on my laptop stopped working, and I had to ship it out to get it replaced. I just got it back today, so here's your update! I hope to get more interest in this story, so please follow/fave/review, etc! Much love to all of you sticking through this! 3_

 _The Shadow Wars_

 _Chapter 9: Not Top Gun_

 _Songs:_

 _Part 1: Arms - Christina Perri_

 _Part 2: She Sets the City on Fire - Gavin Degraw_

 _Part 3: Yes - Demi Lovato_

* * *

 **arms – Christina Perri**

"I feel like this relationship is a series of you dragging me places and me asking where we are going." Jace just sniggers, his fingers interlocking with her as they shuffle barefoot down the hallways of the bunker. "We don't have to sneak around, Jace. We're married." He shushes this, claiming that half the fun is attempting not to get caught. She has to admit, the cold cement on her toes is invigorating as Jace guides them blindly through tunnels he's long ago memorized. There are flickering floodlights that cast silver pools at their toes but do little to illuminate where they are headed. "Jonathon Christopher! Just tell me what we are doing!" In addition to his fingers around hers, he now claps one hand over her mouth, muffling any other questions she can fire at him. She knows he can't see her, but she rolls her eyes dramatically, slipping into silence as Jace kicks open the door to the hangar.

"I think it's about time you learn to fly."

"I know how to fly," she says flatly, but the awe in the stars reflecting in her eyes gives away her true feelings.

"Having a droid do all the work does not make you a pilot, Mrs. Herondale." She hates the butterflies she gets when he calls her that, like her stomach is betraying her. Her blood proves to be a traitor too as it rushes to her cheeks, a visible representation of what this man does to her. For once, Jace makes no smug remark about her blush and uses his fingers to encircle her wrist.

He's bouncing in excitement as he weaves between the fleet of black ships, leading her to the black sheep—or, rather, gold sheep—of the pack. Church beeps a cheerful greeting at the pair, opening the hatch for them to climb in. "No touching my ass this time," she hisses, but no venom pierces her words.

"Such harsh language for a fair lady." He chuckles lightheartedly at her dark expression but stands back with his arms crossed over his chest as she clambers inelegantly in through the hole, finding the bird just as shiny and pristine as the last time she'd been in it. Jace hoists himself in with much more grace, somehow landing and rising from a crouch just as she turns to look at him. He straps a sword across his back and tosses a seraph blade in her direction, nodding approvingly when she deftly catches it, her reflexes much fast than when she'd begun training.

"Alright, Princess, you take the pilot's chair." Her jaw drops, but she quickly snaps it shut, slipping into his rightful seat and splaying her fingers across the control panel. Jace's ship means everything to him, and everyone with two eyes and a set of functioning ears knows as much. Even a simple scuff could send him into a frenzy of cleaning and repainting. It was simply unheard of that someone would drive his beloved machine.

He ignores her surprise and slides into the chair beside her, pushing a purple button that closes the hatch. "Okay, Clary…I'm going to need you to push the buttons in the exact sequence that I tell you and when I tell you to." She nods, her heart fluttering nervously in her chest. "Green button starts the engines." She hits it, and it roars to life around her. "This blue button lifts us into a hover," he inclines his head toward a button in the upper right side of the control panel, blinking expectantly until she realizes she's supposed to push it. No sooner than her index finger punches the button flush with the panel does she feel her body pressed against the bottom of the seat. The ship hovers ten feet above the ground, awaiting next commands. "White to turn on the radar." This one clicks into place as she presses it. "And orange for shields." This one is actually a switch, but Clary doesn't feel very sassy when Jace is teaching her to control his prized possession.

"Now I want you to put one hand on this wheel, and the other on this lever." She does as instructed, accidentally nudging the lever a little. The ship lurches forward. She gasps. Jace laughs. "That's actually the next step." With widened eyes, she pushes the lever forward, driving the ship to the opened gate. "Now as you exit the hangar, you need to pull up on the steering wheel as you push this lever forward."

Aside from almost wrapping them around a tree, she gets the ship into the air safely. "This is the easy part," he tells her. "You use the keypad to type your coordinates into the radar, turn the ship in the right direction, and sit back."

"Where are we going?"

"Anywhere you'd like, my dearest wife." She hides her surprise well this time, pondering the infinite possibilities of soaring through the galaxy. But in her heart, she knows there's only one place she really wants to see, one place that has fed her curiosity for as long as she could remember knowing the boy beside her. "Alicante." Jace arches an eyebrow but doesn't hesitate in giving her the coordinates, helping her guide the ship in the right direction.

"It should take about three hours, give or take." He adds no further comment to the fact that out of an entire universe, she chooses to visit his homeland. It kills her inside to admit her curiosity about this man's past. It's almost like a plague, consuming her with the desire to understand why he is the person he is today. She wants to see the kinds of dust he kicked up beneath his booted feet as he sprinted races with his friends. She wants to touch the thick leaves of the trees he's talked so much about, the ones that turn orange and yellow and red as temperatures vary. She wants to meet these feral ducks he babbles about, to know the terror he feels toward them, to decide if it is valid.

His eyes are on her when her thoughts disperse into awe at the stars. His golden gaze sends heat wherever it touches, warming patches of her skin to a pink flush as he takes his time drinking her in. Jace brushes her curls away from her cheek, foiling her attempt to create a veil with her hair. He uses his thumb and index finger to grip her chin, directing her fleeting gaze against his. "Why do you hide your beauty?" His question is not snide or fueled by mischief. His usually rough voice has a soft undertone, his expression confused rather than smug. "Why do you not share it with the world?"

She tried to capture a flicker of her reflection in the glass above, see a flash of here unruly auburn hair and darkly encircled eyes. Her beauty is nothing special, certainly nothing that would change the world around her. Jace's eyes are flickering between both of hers, awaiting a response she cannot give. It would be cliché for her to tell him that she is not pretty, a disguised cry for more compliments. She couldn't honestly tell him that she feels beautiful, so instead, she inclines her chin, leveling her gaze on him. "Warriors are not measured in beauty." She expects him to quip about his own attractiveness, to turn his head from side to side so she may gaze upon his likeness and know that Shadowhunters can and are beautiful. Instead, he cups her cheek, his calloused hands surprisingly gentle against her skin.

"You have a strength and a beauty that could inspire armies to march to their certain deaths for you, Clarissa. You should not hide that kind of power." Her teeth capture her lower lip as her brows pull together, a foreign tightness in her chest. She wants to tell him that she is merely mediocre, that she does not want to lead her armies to slaughter. Jace continues before she has the chance to. "Yet you are intelligent enough to guide these men away from danger. Truly remarkable." He's almost musing to himself now, his eyes lost in faraway stars as he mumbles softly into the small space between them.

His flattery stirs something in her, has her leaning forward and crashing her mouth to his still moving lips, has her fingers sifting through the soft curls on his head. He is slow to respond, but when he does, it is full force. His hand slides around to cup the back of her neck tilting her head to draw them closer together.

When they break apart, Jace rests his forehead against hers, his eyes dancing like a candle's flame as a crooked smile breaks out across his face. "You have no idea…" he begins, breaking off with breathless laugh, "how long I've been waiting for that." Clary smiles lightly before settling back into her seat, allowing Jace's hand to engulf hers as they speed through the stars. The white noise of the engines lulls her into a dreamlike state, and when Jace kisses her temple and insists she rest, sleep finds her easily.

 **X.O.X.O.X**

 **She Sets the City on Fire – Gavin Degraw**

The full moonlight reflects in her jewel-toned eyes as her feet sink into the mossy underfoot, her arms spread wide and head tilted toward the heavens as she twirls. The cloak Jace had packed for her billows like a ball gown, her peals of laughter playing the melody of his soul. "The stars are dancing, Jace!" she squeals in childish delight, spinning faster and faster until her hair creates a crimson halo.

Wordlessly, Jace shifts the bag on his shoulder, dropping it onto the damp ground with a dull thud. His hands enclose gently around her wrists, engulfing her fingers as he leans back, building momentum to dance with her beneath the winking stars. Her cheeks are stained with pink, joy radiating from every surface of her as her gaze drifts from above to him, her eyelids slipping shut as he controls the motions, twisting her around endlessly. The silent forest, the glinting ship, the scurrying animals—the world melts away as he drowns in her, losing himself wholly and completely in her innocence, in her purity. He'd give his life for this woman and say thank you to the man that took it. He'd cross oceans and galaxies. He'd chase the ever increasing boundary of infinity if she were on it.

"Look up." He's acutely aware of her eyes trailing him as he abides to her commands, tearing his pupils from her and inclining his head. She's spinning him now, her small feet agile even against the slippery ground, her excitement overpowering any fear of falling. Each star runs a lap around another, creating millions of golden rings in the sky, like angels soaring high above Alicante, watching over them as they lose themselves in laughter, in happiness, in emotions he's starved himself of for so long.

"It's beautiful," he murmurs, though it dulls in comparison to the woman beside him. He pulls her to a stop, her chest heaving in her nightgown though her radiant smile shows no exhaustion. "You're beautiful." Years of training have made him deeply aware of people's mannerisms, so he knows exactly how Clary will react to his sentiment. Her breath will catch in her throat, her eyes shimmering in disbelief as she stammers a thank you. She won't negate his compliment, won't fish for further validation of her beauty. She'll nod thoughtfully, a small, confused smile gracing her perfect lips as if she's taking it in. Blood will rush to her cheeks, and she'll duck her head behind her hair, as if hiding could change the way he feels.

As if on cue, she opens her mouth. "Thanks…" she mumbles, trailing off as Jace reaches out and tucks her curls behind her ear, keeping her flushed cheeks on full display. He wants so much to pour his soul out to her, but instead, he slides both hands up her jawbone, hooking his pinkies behind her ears so she has to meet his eyes.

His footsteps are slow and deliberate, backing her against the rough bark of a nearby tree, her chest heaving once more, meeting his between their bodies. "You set my heart ablaze, Clarissa Herondale," he tells her, skimming his nose up the side of hers, her hot breath flowing against the cool skin of his exposed throat. He can hear her ragged breathing, but no words escape her mouth as his lips butterfly red-hot kisses across her cheeks, against forehead, down her nose. The things he wants to do to her, to do _for_ her. The angel should strike him down where he stands for having these thoughts. Though about his own wife, they feel dirty, wrong as she stands frozen beneath his touch, heart hammering loudly even in his ears.

Until her voice breaks through to him. "Kiss me." It's soft but certain as her eyes flicker from his mouth and back, her teeth capturing her bottom lip. He smooths the pad of his thumb across it, releasing it from its confines. Who is he to deny this woman of what she wants? To make her wait with bated breath as he inches ever so slowly forward, weaving his fingers into her hair as hers slide around his neck, toying gently with the curls that rest there.

Her soft breaths fan across his face as he lets his own eyes fall shut, dusting his lips ever so lightly against hers—a ghost of a kiss—until her hands curl into fists in his hair, nearly sending them toppling to the ground as she pulls him hard against her. It's invigorating kissing Clary, sending electricity shooting to his every nerve ending, his toes tingling and his mind soaring high. They mold to each other, neither yielding but neither in full control. His arms glide down her sides, memorizing the curve of her hip, her backside, until his hands grip the back of her thighs, hoisting her up against the tree. Her legs wrap around his waist, his arms bracing either side of her as he surfaces for air. It's only momentary, though, as Clary brushes the curls from her forehead and reunites them.

Their hearts beat in rhythm, pounding out of their chests in unison, as close together as they can be, fighting to become one with each other. Her fingers slide from his hair and over his shoulders, feeling the rigid muscles of his back in their exploration. His hands find the hem of her nightgown, slipping beneath it to feel the silken skin of her legs.

"Jace." That's all it takes for him to pull away. Her voice is strangled, unsteady as he freezes against her, the only motion his beating heart. "I'm…I'm not ready." He can see it there, in her eyes—the insecurity, the fear, the confusion. It pulls a lump into his throat, to see the woman he loves so worried he might make her do something she doesn't want to. He smiles softly, smoothing her gown back down her legs and setting her gently on her feet. Her fingers twine into her hair, pulling in frustration as her head drops back against the trunk

"It's just that for _so_ long, I told myself I wouldn't kiss you, that I didn't give a shit if you ran around with other women. Because _this_ ," she gestures wildly between the two of them, "was just another move toward checkmate. It was all politics and no emotions. And _now_ ," her eyes widen, shaking her head like she's in disbelief, "now I'm begging you to kiss me like some lovesick teenager, and all it takes is one compliment to let you touch me like I'm some common whore!"

Jace doesn't know how to rectify the situation as her words subside, so he cups her cheek, using his thumb to soothe her. "You are neither of those things, Clary." He says it quietly, so quiet that he's not even sure she hears. This is his _wife_ , his one and only for infinity, and that she doesn't know how to feel about their relationship—how to _trust_ him—tears him apart inside. He doesn't know how to convince her he's been with no other woman since his promise to her the night he returned her ring, doesn't know how to evaporate the tears sparkling in her eyes. "Come on," he tells her instead, interlocking their fingers as he leads her away from the shrouded woods. No further words are shared as he retrieves his backpack, guiding her into an abandoned clearing, dotted with rundown homes.

He pulls her to one in particular, with the bones of a thatched roof and a room splitting off the left side. There are still a few rusted pots thrown haphazardly across the ground, like someone tore through the place, looking for something hidden. The windows are thick with grime, and Jace has to brandish a witchlight to even see down the hallways. He'd long ago returned and buried the decomposed dead at the edge of the prairie, small wooden crosses marking each grave. His father's sword still rests where he was slain, at the edge of the kitchen, above the crawlspace Jace had slipped into.

His heart stalls in his chest at the sight of it, hilt splattered with his father's blood, perfectly formed to fit the grip of his hand. It plays like a movie before his eyes, vision cut through the slats of the hidden hole, merciless killing and harrowing screams echoing from every direction. He can see his father in an attack stance, blocking the intruder's pursuit of his mother. This is what Jace knows true love to be, all-consuming and high-stakes.

And it's in that moment he realizes that for Clary to trust him, he must also trust her. And when she tentatively asks him about this place, he lets it all out. For the first time in his life, he tells someone of his parents' deaths, of his rescue, of all his shortcomings. The words fill from his mouth, unabated by fear of judgment, by fear of appearing weak, by fear of anything. His whole body seemingly exhales as he releases the weight he's been carrying for so long.

He doesn't shrug away when Clary puts her arms around him, doesn't shift her from his chest when she drifts to sleep, doesn't slip from the door as the sun returns from the depths of darkness. He just allows himself to be held and for once, he doesn't feel weakened by affection. He feels as if he can move mountains, empowered by the emotions raging through him.

The princess is slowly awakening him to all that can be experienced in this life, and he wants every bit of it.

X.O.X.O.X

 **Yes – Demi Lovato**

She can hear Jace moving around before the sun has even risen, the familiar sound of the coffeemaker brewing a pot for them to share, the shuffling of the newspaper in his hand, the soft sifting sound of his feet against the wooden floor. She rolls her eyes to the ceiling, clutching the blanket to her chest as she just listens. She hears him turn off the coffeemaker, hears him flip a page, write a note. The erratic beating of her heart is unnecessary, serving to mock her as unintentional feelings flood her.

They'd returned from Alicante late last night, stumbling almost drunkenly through the corridors, careless as to whoever saw them clutching hands, laughing until they were breathless, sharing secret smiles and inside jokes. She hears the door close and releases a breath she hadn't known she'd been holding, finally able to cling to a coherent thought.

She's falling in love with Jace.

She may _already_ love Jace.

A string of curses fall from her mouth, caught in her pillow as she rolls over, pillowing her head in the sleeve of the t-shirt she wears—Jace's t-shirt. That bastard has somehow managed to infiltrate every aspect of her being. Both her conscious and unconscious thoughts revolve around his golden halo of hair, his crooked smile and chipped incisor he despises so much. She finds beauty in his flaws, softness in his rough hands. She earns her joy from his happiness. She's linked so intricately to this man she once despised it scares her.

"Damn you, Jace Herondale," she growls, kicking off her covers and stalking grumpily down to the kitchen, finding the pot of coffee with a note in Jace's elegant script.

 _You nearly killed us last night._

It pulls a laugh from her chest she remembers the rogue meteor nearly blowing a hole in the side of their ship until Jace slammed the engines into reverse and flew them to safety. Her fingers are warmed as they grip her favorite, water-colored mug, her other thumb running over the indentations on the paper. Her curls brush her cheek when her head whips in the direction of the door, her giggling maids dropping into short curtsies when they realize her attention has turned to them.

"Princess—"

"Good morning!" Clary greets, a smile growing on her face as she puts her empty mug down. One maid has a set of garment bags in her hands, the shadowhunting gear she'd had Jace request for her a few weeks ago. "Please, go enjoy your day," she tells her ladies as she drapes the bags over her arm. "I insist!" She ensures they shut the door behind them before throwing the bags onto her upstairs bed and texting the only girl who would know how to handle this situation.

"Tell me everything," Isabelle says before she's even through the door.

"Shhhh!" Clary chastises, casting a wary gaze at her guard before locking the door. Her hands grip Isabelle's as she drags her up the stairs, the ties on her robe loosening with every step. When they're safely in her room, Clary secures her robe and pushes her wet curls off her forehead.

"He kissed you?!" Clary blushes deeply, like it is the most scandalous thing, kissing her husband. "Was it good? Well, of course, it was good. I mean, it's _Jace_ ," Isabelle rambles, "but was it _good_."

"I think…" Clary starts, but falls off with a sigh, admitting it to herself is one thing, but to another person, let alone his sister, is another. "I think I'm falling for him." Isabelle releases a squeal so high Clary has to flick herself in the ear to ensure she's not deaf.

"I'm going to be an aunt before I know it!"

"By the angel, Isabelle!" The blush has crept down her chest. "Just, help me dress to impress him." Isabelle waggles her eyebrows a bit, her attention falling to the bags on the bed. She makes a show of undoing the zipper, her jaw dropping at the black leather suit before her.

"This will do it," she announces, ushering Clary into the bathroom where she dries and curls her hair into tame waves. Her fingers smudge smoky eyeshadow and winged eyeliner onto her face, and she turns her back as Clary slips into the suit. "Uh-uh," Isabelle tsks, grabbing the zipper in the front and pulling it down to expose Clary's surprisingly perky amount of cleavage. She tops it off with some high heeled boots and admires her work. "He won't be able to resist you."

Her window shows her a setting sun, meaning Jace will soon be done training. Clary bites her lip, suddenly uncertain. "Jace is crazy about you, Clary. My entire family is."

"Except your father," Clary points out quickly, plopping onto her comforter.

"He's just traditional, that's all." Isabelle rubs her hand down Clary's back. "You are stunning, and you don't need to dress like this to impress Jace. I think you're dressing like this to impress yourself."

"That doesn't make any sense, Iz." Isabelle stands up, heading for the door.

"Sure, it does. See you for lunch tomorrow?"

"Yeah." Clary watches her friend leave and summons all her confidence to slip past her guard down the hallway. Her feet carry her the now familiar path to the training room. She sees an entire class hanging onto his every word as he twirls a dagger before them, instructing proper technique. He's so at ease when he's teaching, so comfortable becoming the idol of all young boys. This type of confidence is sexy, alluring, pulling her through the door.

"General," she greets as he turns slowly in her direction at the prompting of excited glances and haphazard bows. These children look much too young to be training for war, but the giddiness in their step, the way they hang on to Jace's every word tells her they enjoy this, that they were born to be warriors.

"You're dismissed!" he tells the kids over his shoulder, his words followed by the clumsy scuffle of kids given freedom. Clary smooths her shaking palms over the front of her outfit, lifting her chin to meet Jace's eyes. "Do you need something, princess?" Her heart falters in her chest at the way the pet name rolls off his tongue. She can see his eyes drinking her in, though the rest of his exterior shows no effect.

"Yes," she breathes before hooking her hand around the back of his neck and dragging his mouth down to hers. She captures his surprised gasp in her mouth, her confidence growing as he responds to her, tangling one hand in her curls and sliding the other around her waist, using it as leverage to pull her closer. His lips move fluidly against hers, no space between them as she feels her back pressed against the wall.

Her fingers pull at his hair, his sliding across the leather. His dagger had clattered to the floor and now lay feet away, the rest of the world lost to their lust. When they break apart, they're both panting, struggling to catch their breath. Jace toys with a wave by her ear, looking down at her through his lashes, his lips swollen.

"The things you do to me." His voice is low, soft as his arms box her in, his eyes so dark they're almost like glowing embers.

"I think," she whispers as he waits with bated breath. "I think I'm falling for you."

* * *

 _We're getting there. Slowly but surely. Clace will soon make a steamy appearance ;)_

All My Love

~BallinBlonde21


	10. Distasteful Penis Jokes

_I GOT MY LAPTOP BACK! WHOOOOOOOO THAT MEANS UPDATE! :D_

 _The Shadow Wars_

 _Chapter 10: Distasteful Penis Jokes_

 _Songs:_

 _Part 1: Woman Woman - AWOLNATION_

 _Part 2: Night of the Hunter - Thirty Seconds to Mars_

 _Part 3: Slow Hands - Niall Horan_

X.O.X.O.X

Jace strides through the halls with purpose, his blades strapped across his back and weapons shifting in his belt as he maneuvers the bunker with an expertise only years of sneaking around in the cold cement could have given him. Truthfully, Jace regrets this part of his history, the one that portrays him as a heartless player using women for nothing more than his own personally pleasure. There's no falsehood in this statement, as he'd busied himself with different women for an hour or two before dismissing them and moving onto the next. He'd deemed it necessary in the life he lives, as his belief that to love is to destroy and to be love is to be the one destroyed is embedded in his skull as blindingly bright as his father's face in death. His walls could not be touched. His heart could not be shaken, until a trigger-happy princess with a mane of flames and an attitude to match stomped right into his chest and wrenched it from his ribcage.

He has to bite down on his lower lip at the memories of her rosebud mouth, hot against his, breathing pure fire into his soul as he pushed her against the wall. Her words had shattered his barriers, their shared breaths breathing new life into his lungs as if he'd opened his eyes for the very first time in that training room, every curve of him against her, drowning in that vulnerable green gaze before kissing her senseless again, leaving them to stumble back home with swollen lips, stealing kisses in the darkness until she'd fallen asleep and he'd tucked her securely under her blankets.

When he'd woken, she hadn't been there, her gear and boots missing along with her and an empty mug in the skin beside an almost empty pot of coffee. He didn't have to think very hard to know where he'd find her. When he slides open the door to the training room, he's not disappointed by the sight of her. She's tied her hair back into a thick braid, swinging like a whip around her as she practices her attacks, her defense, lashing out at the dummy before her. She's shed her sweatshirt, balled up in the corner as the taut muscles of her back glimmer with exertion. Her attacks are graceful, beautiful even, like they're emanating directly from her rather than a simple motion. The warrior has become part of her, the Shadowhunter in her finally has awoken as she removes the dummy's head.

He's about to chastise her for not recognizing his presence when a knife embeds itself in the door next to the left of his head, a smirk settling on his lips as he lifts his gaze from her heaving chest to her focused eyes. His life could have taken many different turns to wrench Clary from his future, her resentment at his initial lack of compassion, his previous indiscretions, their first drunken encounter, and even the idea of treating Clary the way he's treated so many women before causes an unfamiliar and uneasy feeling to take root in the pit of his stomach. "Do you often creepily stare at women from the shadows?" she asks with raised brows, "Or do I get special treatment because I am your wife?" The ring glints on her finger as she whispers the names of her blades, securing them in her belt before closing the distance between them. There's not even time to take a breath before her lips are against his, her hands tangling into his curls as she opens her mouth to him eagerly.

He pulls away just slightly, his hand cupping the back of her neck as he holds their lips a hair's breadth away. "Do you often kiss men staring creepily in the shadows, or am I special because I'm your husband?"

"Shut up," she groans, slapping his chest before he pulls her face against his once more. He slides his hand from her neck into his hair as the other reaches around behind him.

"You're a quick learner, Princess," Jace commends, the familiar vibration of metal against metal vibrating up her arm as their blades connect in an arcing sweep, pushing them apart a few feet before the begin circling each other. She hadn't missed a beat when Jace attempted to use the kiss as a distraction, and honestly her focus is almost more arousing than the kiss. Clary uses her left hand to push damp curls out of her face, revealing her smirking husband as she lashes out once more.

The fall into an elegant dance of attacks and counters, neither bowing to the other even as the clanking of their weapons is drowned out by labored breathing. Jace, obviously, has not broken a sweat, easily evading her attack and countering with one of his own, but he has not so easily disarmed her this time, his hits landing soundly against her sword, his devilish grin reflected in the metallic sheen.

"I'd say that I had a good teacher, but it would go straight to your ego. It would leave you at a disadvantage." She manages to tear the edge of his t-shirt but does not break skin as he dances away from her attack.

"What's the disadvantage in that?" he inquires with a quirked brow, his footwork now matching hers, stalking her into a corner.

"Bigger head, easier target." This time, she manages to stun him and unbalance the weapon in his grip. Instead of trying to catch it, Jace pushes it into his other hand and grabs the second sword at his back, smiling villainously as he finally manages to knock Clary's blade away. She concedes only when his sword is against her neck, his fingers in her curls to reveal her throat. But instead of defeat in her expression, there's a thirst in her eyes, a need for a release that cannot be given with a sword.

In one motion, her legs are wrapped around his waist, her back pressed flush against the wall. Her hair creates a curtain as his mouth assaults hers, her whimpers all the encouragement he needs to move one hand from where it's braced beside her to cup her breast. When her head falls back against the wall, Jace moves his lips to her neck, biting and sucking at the sensitive skin of her pulse point until her hands are fisted in his hair, yanking and pulling. His name falls from her lips like a poem, smooth and slow like a winding river, and he pushes back to smile at her. It's a gentle one that reaches his eyes, one that's on reserve for moments like this, when the red blush creeps up from her neck to her cheeks, but her eyes refuse to be embarrassed, boring directly into his as his heart beats like a drum against his chest.

The spells is broken by the babbling of young Shadowhunters approaching the bunker, and Jace gently returns his wife to her two feet, steadying her as she sways a bit. "Finish this later?" she inquires lowly, her voice full of a foreign and sexy confidence. Jace only has it in him to nod dumbly at her retreating figure, and a low whistle breaks out from one of his Sixteens.

"Herondale's got it bad," someone says with a laugh, and Jace whirls on them, smirking with vengeance.

"Give me ten miles. Go!"

X.O.X.O.X

The hangar is a flurry of excitement as the first wave of Eighteens funnels in through the side entrance, lining up along the far-left wall. They gaze upon the sight before them with wide, curious eyes, the fleet of new ships parked in organized rows, cast in the warm glow of sunshine flooding in through the opened doors—their ships. Coated in a thick, matte black paint with a golden Idrisian seal adorning each side, these stealth fighters are perfectly disguised to travel in the midnight galaxy between the warfronts, easy to conceal and maneuver into the battle zone with minimum casualties.

Despite the energetic hum in the room, Jace paces anxiously before his students, many of whom he'd trained for several years. His combat boots fall silently against the floor though each footstep feels heavier than the last. Their chatter of new marks and assignments falls on deaf ears as millions of thoughts roar through their General's head. His students' familiar faces, smiles filled with awe and trust—how can he send these Shadowhunters, sheltered from the brutalities of war, directly into the heart of the fight? In them, he sees his twelves, his fifteens, his little brother Max excitedly dragging his seraph blade behind him around the house. He sees men not much older than boys completely unprepared for the trials ahead. In them, he sees himself, thrust into this war before even his first rune, watching his parents die before him, piloting his first mission at fifteen with Church by his side. He sees souls that will forever be changed and joy that won't shine as bright.

"General," someone greets, and Jace whirls to find icy understanding in his brother's blue eyes, his bow strapped across his back as he comes to a stop before the troops. Though the pair had never talked about it, Jace's parabatai must feel how worried he is for his students, and though his harsh training methods and snide remarks don't show it, how much he cares for this group of boys. Jace nods solemnly at his brother, thankful for the silent support Alec offers through their bond.

"Alec, do you have orders from the King?" Jace manages to maintain a professional tone in front of his Eighteens, though he feels as if he is crumbling on the inside, sending these boys to an early grave. Alec flashes a thick folder of paper containing the assignments of his men and their missions, but before he can take it, Alec rests a gentle hand on Jace's shoulder.

"The King has selected me to accompany you men to the base and divvy out the assignments there." He dips his head in a nod at Jace before calling over his shoulder for the Eighteens to follow. Jace stops the first by resting a hand on his chest, staring the brown-haired, blue-eyed boy directly in the eyes.

"Remember," he says, lowly but with force, " _Facilis descensus Averno_ (the descent to Hell is easy)." They nod in unison before disappearing behind the ships, leaving Jace to worry over his own thoughts.

"General Herondale!" an unmistakable voice calls from above the hangar, waving him upward. The King is dressed in robes as red as the blood of his soldiers, but his smile splits his face as Jace begins the slow ascension to the balcony overlooking the expanse of airships.

"Your Highness." Jace bends at the waist into a low, formal bow, before lowering his gaze to hear King Lucian's message.

"As my son-in-law, you are allowed to call me Luke," the man smiles, showing the wrinkles at the corners of his gray-blue eyes. Jace forces his smile to appear genuine though his mouth tastes of copper and his mind shows him the memory of his Eighteens setting off to war.

"Habits die hard, your Highness." Lucian laughs once, dismissing his guard detail with a wave of his calloused fingers, quite a strange feature for a mundane king. Though, with Clary's mother being Nephilim, it would be unsurprising if Jocelyn taught the king to fight.

"I've come to remind you of your impending deployment."

"Yes, sir, two months from now. Being married to your daughter does not mean I expect special treatment."

"Good," the King says after a beat of silence, swirling on his heel and disappearing in a flash of red. A low whistle rings out, and Jace turns his head to see Sebastian peeling himself from the wall, dressed for battle with several blades hanging from his hips.

"Damn, you'd think he'd let you hang back seeing as that little worm in your pants holds the fate of the Garroway legacy." Jace rolls his eyes, batting Sebastian's hand away as it makes to flick his junk.

"A warrior's first duty is to his people, then to his wife."

"Still, you'd think he'd extend your leave, at least to protect the princess."

"Princess Clarissa has a trustworthy security team ensuring her safety. I have no need to fear for her wellbeing while fighting for Idris." Jace inwardly cringes at his detached tone, when in reality, he's fighting the building excitement at the thought of returning to a bundle of red curls sprawled out on the sofa with a carton of ice cream.

Sebastian's black eyes dance with amusement, his lower lip pulled between his teeth as if he's trying to decide whether to say something. Unsurprisingly, he does. "Am I sensing trouble in paradise? You two seemed pretty…intimate this morning."

Jace merely shrugs, directing his attention over Sebastian's shoulder to feign indifference. "Must be strange, having to live through other's intimate moments instead of experiencing it for yourself. Now, if you'll excuse me." Jace moves past Sebastian as he steps aside, before turning to face him over his shoulder.

"Oh, and Sebastian, if you are ever so vulgar in the presence of my wife, I will have no problem removing your tiny legacy and putting it to use cleaning the gaps around the buttons in my control panel."

X.O.X.O.X

The sound of the door slamming open jolts her from the sketch she's working on, her head turning in time to be met with a burning kiss, Jace's fingers gripping her jaw to keep her face pressed against his. "Hello, beautiful," he greets her in a low, almost feral voice, his eyes swallowed almost entirely by his pupil as he leaps gracefully over the back of the couch, pushing her onto her back so she's stretched out beneath him. Sweat drips from the ends of his hair, his shirt clinging to every curve of his muscle as she's enveloped in his intoxicating, musky scent.

"H-hi," she manages, her heart threatening to escape her ribcage as his fingers skim up her side, taking the t-shirt a bit with it. She can't get another word out before his lips are against hers again, feverishly almost, his tongue begging for access. When she grants it, he caresses hers, arms wrapping securely around her shoulders to ensure no space seeps between them. He breaks away to press hot, open-mouthed kisses to every inch of her he can reach, her hands pulling agitatedly at the shirt he wears, annoyed by the barrier and wanting it gone. He acknowledges this by momentarily pausing, reaching behind himself with one arm and yanking it over his head, casting it to the floor across the room.

"Your turn," he growls huskily, and she lifts her arms as if obeying a command, allowing him to rip it from her body. His eyes darken perceptibly when he sees her naked torso, his hands skimming between her hipbones in a way that sets her insides on fire. Normally, she'd wish to cover up, to cross her arms across her chest and hide her blush with her curls. Except the way Jace is looking at her, both with an insatiable hunger and awed eyes, she feels bold, beautiful. "What's gotten into you, you dirty girl," he purrs as she wraps her legs around his waist, grating her center against his. This, though, pulls a blush to her face, Jace smirking successfully as his palm flattens against her breast, her back arching involuntarily to his touch.

"Hopefully you," she answers, feeling naughty as his fingers circle her breast, trailing up across it and over the peak. It hardens against his hand, welcoming the feelings shooting to her core. Jace's breath hitches, and she uses this moment to launch an assault on his lips, using her locked heels to pull his hips against hers in a steady motion. Jace responds vigorously, continuing his ministrations against her breasts as he meets her frenzied thrusts, his head dipping to suckle at her supple skin. He's leaving stark, purple marks against her skin, mapping a path between her breasts and down to her naval, where he flicks his gaze upward at her, heat flooding her core as he uses his teeth to undo the snap of her jeans, never breaking her stare.

He props himself up on one elbow, the heat of his body replaced by a cool rush of air. But it's his fingers moving slow circles against her through her lace panties that has her trembling uncontrollably. The air around her seems to be charged, a magnetic pull drawing her closer to Jace, her throaty whimpers pleading for more. Jace unceremoniously hooks his fingers through her panties and rips them from her, the shredded lace joining the pile of clothes on the floor as she lays fully naked before him, completely at the mercy of his fingertips as he skims them up and down her thighs, reveling in the way she pants, the way her body begs him to touch her.

He doesn't make her ask. Instead, he hooks one of her knees over his shoulder, opening her up to him as he flicks his tongue against her. Clary isn't embarrassed when she bucks her hips against him because his grip on her tightens, his eyes becoming black holes. He blows a stream of cool breath against her hot, dripping center before running his tongue along the length of her, earning an uninhibited moan of pleasure. Prompted by this, he begins working against her more thoroughly, his fingers circling the bundle of nerves at the apex of her legs while his tongue dips in and out of her, lapping greedily as she quivers uncontrollably, his name burning up her throat like fire as she laces her fingers through his curls, pulling his face down hard against her. He moves faster, harder against her as a scream works its way out from her lungs, sending her over the edge as her fingers curl into fists in his hair. Jace continues to drink from her as she floats down from her high, aftershocks sending waves of crashing ecstasy through her.

She moans once more when his eyes finally meet hers, still dark and full of desire. She grabs his cheeks, pulling his face down against hers, unconcerned that the taste of her is on his lips. "This is hardly fair," she announces gruffly after a moment, her fingers adeptly working the snaps of his gear until he's shucking his pants and boxers onto the floor, balancing above her, strong and ready. She'd never gotten this far with him before and can't help but sneak a nervous glance down. If she'd ever doubted that every inch of him would be golden perfection, she'd been put to shame.

The blond hairs beneath his belly button trail down and spread out over his thighs. Every inch of exposed skin is a perfect honeyed tan, save for the hard member reaching out and brushing her pelvic bone, smooth and pink. With Jace's big feet and long, agile fingers, she hadn't expected him to be small, yet the sheer length of it both mesmerizes and terrifies her. "Hey," he whispers softly, dropping a tender kiss to the tip of her nose. She snaps her attention back to his face, turning a violent shade of crimson at being caught gawking. "There's no rule saying we can't stop right now." There's a tenseness in his voice, telling her he's using all his control and sanity to keep himself out of her, to say these words, but they are sincere, gentle as he uses one finger to stroke the length of her cheek. She's heard of blue balls, and that is not something she wishes to give to Jace right now, seeing how ready he is for her, how much she excites him, pleased that she seems to have the same effect on him as he on her.

"I…I'm not…ready," she finally settles on, and Jace nods stiffly, his muscles flexing as he moves to lift himself from her. "To go all the way," she amends, as she stands up, pressing her naked body against his and resting her chin on his chest as to look up at him. There's a question in his eyes as she slowly lowers herself onto her knees, taking him into her hands as his knees nearly buckle. The sight of himself in her small hands has him nearly coming undone already, but curiosity has him holding out.

"Fuck," he grits out roughly as her tongue escapes her lips to taste him experimentally. It takes all his restraint to not shove himself into her opened mouth as she suckles on the tip, swirling her tongue rapidly around it while her hand pumps him up and down. Her big green eyes lift to meet his, and Jace has to brace his hands in her curls. He wants to coax her up and down, to see how far she can fit him in her mouth, but he waits, enjoying the euphoria washing over him as she continues her ministrations. Slowly, she takes him deeper, further and begins to bob her head up and down, licking and sucking until Jace's eyes are rolling back into his head, sputtering, "Clary, I'm going to come." His eyes widen as she shoves him as deeply as she can take, his seed spilling into her throat as he moans her name. She releases him, wiping her mouth on the back of her hand as they both collapse onto the couch.

Jace wraps his arms securely around her, tucking her into his side and stretching his long legs out before him. "You're amazing, you know that?" he says, his hoarse voice breaking the silence. She tries to hide behind a veil of curls, but Jace brushes them away, along with her insecurities. "Please, don't hide yourself from me." The friction of his hand moving against her arm warms her, and Jace reaches out to flick on the television, pulling a quilt over the naked and sated bodies as they argue over which channel to watch. When she finally wins, Jace concedes with a kiss to her forehead, and even though she falls asleep minutes into the show, when she rouses, Jace is still dutifully watching the same one.

* * *

 _A bit of fluff because shit is about to go down...I am not kidding...this is your warning..._

 _Review?_

 _All My Love_

 _~BallinBlonde21_


	11. The Fate of Jack and Diane

_Another update because you are the best readers out there, and I felt so bad for forgetting my computer at home! You deserve it! 3 3 I appreciate every single one of you that takes the time to read my stories and am so touched by the supportive reviews you give me. Every follow, favorite, etc. brings a bit of joy to my monotonous days. I just want you all to know how much you mean to me and how grateful I am for such fantastic readers!_

 _As always, I apologize for any mistakes! ENJOY!_

 _The Shadow Wars_

 _Chapter 11: The Fate of Jack and Diane_

 _Songs:_

 _Part 1: Earth - Sleeping At Last_

 _Part 2: Oh Lord - MIC Lowery_

 _Part 3: Sugar We're Going Down - Fall Out Boy_

 _Part 4: Remembering Sunday - All Time Low_

* * *

"Is this…oatmeal?" Clary inquires, lifting a spoonful of the brown substance in question, turning it over and expecting gravity to pull it back into the bowl. It stays put, and Clary has to duck to avoid a flying spatula, hitting a spot against the wall where her head would have been.

"It's minute rice!" the raven-haired woman groans in frustration, putting her face in her hands. "Dinner is ruined." Her dark lips are pushed out in a pout of defeat as she swirls a third glass of wine, drowning her disappointments in the deep red liquid. "I've literally burned every last stitch of food in this kitchen!" Clary fills her whisky glass, observing her friend's dismay with calm contemplation. That is, until her stomach decides to interject by pretending to be a jet engine.

"Don't worry," Clary says, reaching out to the screen mounted on Izzy's wall and tapping out a quick message. "We can fix this."

"I don't want takeout!" Isabelle whines, but Clary shushes her, shooting a pointed look at the bits of charred casserole she'd been unable to scrape into the oven as if to say _you did this to us._ It silences the girl enough for Clary finish the message and turn with her arms crossed.

"Oh, how you underestimate me, Isabelle Lightwood." She tosses back the contents of her glass, her cheeks already flushed from the previous glass. Clary has always been a lightweight, one or two shots warming her insides. Four remind her how fun it is to dance on countertops. Seven has her world spinning violently. She has to take it slowly, usually sipping instead of chugging. But tonight, she's nervous, her previous decisiveness causing anxiousness to creep in.

"I came as fast as I could," a winded Simon announces after bursting through the doorway, hands filled with an expansive array of foods. "I wasn't going to be able to finish this anyway." He sets out a meal of lasagna, salad, and garlic bread, merely shrugging.

Simon has always been a brilliant cook, and Clary knew he would have made too much dinner for himself, prompting her to reach out to him. And introduce her new friends. "Simon," she says when his chocolate eyes finally meet hers. "This is Isabelle." She can't suppress her laugh when Simon's gaze moves to her friend. Clary disappears entirely, the pair locked in a trance of dark eyes and hair. "Okay, well, I'm going to eat," she says casually, plopping down while the others continue to have a staring match. Once they finally can blink again, Clary still can't get a word in edgewise. The air is electric, sparks nearly visible between the two as they babble incessantly about anything and everything. Clary is content to chew in silence, observing this new dynamic.

She and Jace have never been this way. They talk to serve a purpose, not to just hear each other talk. Their relationship is expressed in touches, in gestures, in shared secrets and trust. It's different, but it's hers. It's everything she could have asked for and more. Still, she can't overlook how different her experience is from this one. When she was with Sebastian, there was never silence. There was small talk, trivial conversation to fill the void. There weren't many touches, just fervent kisses in shadowed alcoves. She never cared to feel his heart beating against her ear nor weave her fingers into his hair. She talked to keep him at a safe distance, so she could lie to herself about what she really felt.

"Thanks for dinner, Simon." Clary pushes her chair back from the table, wrapping some leftovers for Jace per Simon's request. "Maybe Simon can teach you how to cook, Iz!" she calls over her shoulder with a wink before quickly shutting the door. An object slams into the wood behind her, and she chuckles darkly, able to hear Isabelle's peeling laughter as her feet carry her wistfully through the busy hallways. She nods her greetings at the guards, stationed strategically on her path back home, a compromise between her and her father when she'd refused twenty-four-hour security. Her father felt she'd be safe enough with these men watching her from the fringes, and she knew she could still slip past them when deemed necessary, which it often is.

Tonight, though, she has no immediate desire to go unnoticed. She feels as if she is walking on air, her entire body burning with pale fire at her own revelation. She cares for Jace in ways she's never believed possible. And she's going to let him mark her. Light seems to be radiating from within her, drawing smiles from everyone she passes. "Alaric," she nods courteously at the guard standing in front of her door, his kind gray eyes showing a hint of amusement.

"Did you bring me dinner?" Clary laughs, producing a single slice of garlic bread from the pocket of her cloak and handing it over to him, watching his face light up in surprise. "You are a picture of grace, Princess."

"I know," she says with a wink, not fumbling with the keys as she pushes them into the lock of her matrimonial apartment. She's not surprised when the lights are off, but she can't fend off the heavy disappointment settling in her stomach. She'd hoped to leap into Jace's arms, professing her deepest desires in the center of their tiled kitchen. But, Jace has been known to train well after dark, often coming home late and consuming ever leftover in sight. So instead, she puts his food in the fridge, flopping over the back of the sofa and flicking through television channels. Reality television is still a popular form of entertainment on Idris, though Clary finds no joy in the jealousy and deceit of those shows.

She settles for watching reruns of Jace's favorite childhood cartoon, feeling closer to him while doing something he enjoys. It doesn't hurt that she's beginning to understand his silly references. There's a full glass of water on the coffee table, and she chugs it greedily, hoping to sober up. The whiskey has her warm and tipsy, but she doesn't want to pass out and miss Jace's return. She doesn't realize she's drifted off until a noise from upstairs sets her on edge. Sitting up, she grips the seraph blade Jace had given her, sheathed against her thigh beneath her thick skirts. Her heartbeat hammers in her ears as she climbs the stairs in deathly silence, honing in on the stealth in her DNA. While her bedroom door is shut firmly, Jace's has been left slightly ajar, a sliver of moonlight illuminating the hallway in hazy light. More noises resound: a creak, a giggle, a moan. She toes the door open a little more, nearly dropping her weapon at the tangle of blond hair in the center of Jace's black sheets.

She's blinded by the brilliant pink wings fluttering feverishly, creating a whirlwind in the room that destroys Jace's meticulously clean room, the curve of her spine catching the low light. She can't see Jace's face, but she can see his arms, running over the small of her back, his inky tattoos familiar to her as her own skin. She covers her mouth to silence any noise she makes as she backs away, the woman bouncing sloppily atop her husband.

She stumbles when her back presses against the railing, a blonde head whipping around to reveal a set of glowing blue eyes. Instead of flushed with embarrassment, Kaelie indulges in a wicked smirk before releasing another pleasured moan, refusing to break Clary's stare. The redhead is the one to turn away, driven from her own home by a fairy that had once sworn to demolish the shaky foundation she'd built with Jace.

No longer does the princess touch her surroundings with light. Her gray tears cast darkness upon the bunker, each footstep echoing in the abandoned hallways like a gunshot to her chest. After tripping over her skirts, she gathers them in her fists, her tearstained face on full display for the worried and alarmed guards. She refuses to stop until she was beating down Isabelle's door, ignoring the guards' questions and instead accepting her friend's open embrace. Thankfully, Izzy refuses to allow the guards access, deadbolting the door in their faces and ushering Clary into the living room.

She doesn't ask questions because she doesn't need to. Only heartbreak can cause a meltdown like this, and since the king is alive and well, only one person is to blame.

X.O.X.O.X

The weights slip from his grasp as he finishes his last set, his muscles protesting any further reps as they bounce off the mat beneath his feet. Dusk has settled over Idris, the dying sun cutting shadows across the training room as he scrubs the sweat from his faces and pushes the button to lower the iron curtains over the secret windows, the bunker's one vulnerability. His heart is beating unsteadily in his chest, his breath short and erratic. He cannot attribute these things to the long hours spent training his Shadowhunters today, but rather the sound of the redhead's voice in his ear, telling him she's falling for him, moaning his name beneath his experienced fingertips, confirming that his feelings for the princess are not unjustified, not unrequited.

He's been replaying that moment in his head for the few days following, her words low and slow like molasses, her perfect pink lips forming each one with calm deliberation. His soul screams to be with her, all hours of the day, and focusing on his pupils has proven to be quite a challenge, the classes often having to call his name over the roar of his thoughts, asking for further instruction. Now, as he pulls his shirt over his chest, he must restrain himself from running the familiar pathway to his apartment, hoping she's returned from dinner with Isabelle, wanting nothing more than to hoist her onto the counter and kiss her until they're both breathless.

"Kaelie!" he says, surprised by her presence as he turns around to grab his canteen from the floor. She should have never been able to sneak up behind him unnoticed, his reflexes and senses more advanced and superior to most. The idea of Clary, her unruly red curls and smiling green eyes, must have him senseless, thoughtless, because here the fairie stands, a slight rose tinge to her cheeks as she toes the ground awkwardly, her glittering pink wings spread wide behind her head, like a shimmering sunset. The sparkles catch in the low light as they flutter, her thick lashes batting in his direction.

Jace grabs his bag, throwing it over his shoulder and brushing past her. He has nothing to say to her and has no intention of wasting precious time with his wife to listen to her high-pitched rendition of events that transpired long ago. He blindly wishes she'd come to use the facility and not in a vain attempt to capture his attention. "Jace!" she calls, chasing after him as the door nearly slams in her face. He doesn't hold it for her, instead nodding a greeting to the guards stationed in the hallways. These are human, with rifles tucked securely in their grip. Of age Shadowhunters are sparse these days, stationed on far away planets, fighting battles with obscure goals. These men are propped strategically along the pathways Clary often traverses, the king's own personal security squadron, set to keep Clary safe from Valentine's wrath.

Jace's occupation requires he be in the training room and away from his wife for long hours, so he's thankful these men have turned their attention toward her safety, but he's jealous of them. It's his duty as a husband to ensure his wife is happy and secure. It's his job to watch over her, and his eyes should be the only set trailing her in hallways, searching for any sign of discomfort. He doesn't like the way some of them watch her as she goes, their gaze a little lower than what is polite. Still, he doesn't pick a fight with them. He needs them and their watchful but somewhat inappropriate gazes. "Jace, please, I just want to talk to you." Jace doesn't stop, but doesn't speed up either. Kaelie easily falls into step with him, a strange feat for a woman after having spent so much time slowing down to match Clary's short-legged strides. "We need to talk about us."

Jace rolls his eyes. So she is just vying for him. "There's never been an _us_ , Kaelie." He takes a deep swallow from his canteen, this entire conversation leaving a bad taste in his mouth.

"I know Fae and Shadowhunters can't produce viable offspring, and I _know_ the Shadowhunters need all the numbers they can get. But does that really mean we can't be together?" Jace stops abruptly, landing a leveled gaze at this blonde bimbo. Does she really not see it? He's certain it's displayed quite obviously across his face. He has no feelings for her, not lust and most certainly not love. He laughs incredulously at the prospect that she might think he loves her.

"You can't possibly be serious." She blinks at him, indicating that she has, in fact, convinced herself that this is all true. "It's not procreation that keeps me from being with you. It's the blatant fact that I don't want there to be an us." There's a strange look flashing through her eyes—not sadness or disappointment, but pure, unbridled rage. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to get home to my wife." He finishes the last of his drink and shoves the empty canteen into his bag, wary of the malicious smile stretching across Kaelie's glossy lips.

"Oh, I don't think you'll be going anywhere, Herondale." The room around him begins to shrink until it's like he's peering through a tunnel. All that's at the other end are deep, emerald eyes and vibrant crimson curls. "I think you should take me to bed." It seems like the greatest idea to him, to loop his arm through this woman's and kiss her passionately, much to risqué for under the scrutinizing gaze of the guards, who are clearing their throats uncomfortably at this treasonous display of affection. "I won't say please," she hisses under her breath. All Jace can do is stumble drunkenly down the hallways to his apartment, swiftly opening the locks and letting Kaelie push him into his bedroom, the door wide open as she shoves him onto the bed and begins undoing the snaps on his gear. Her hands move to smooth the shirt up his chest, but he has it in him to grunt in disapproval, batting her away.

He's paralyzed as she's pulling the black pants down his legs, his fingers toying with a rouge curl. It's strange, how it slides through his grasp like a silken lock, when instead it should spring up, bouncing against his touch. He doesn't ponder it through as this woman sinks onto him, his eyes falling shut. And it feels wrong, so wrong, but his body is responding the way anyone's would. Waves of ecstasy roll over him, though they're not as powerful as he'd expected him to be, and he's not as comfortable as he should have been. "Clary," he finds himself moaning as he's about to climax. "Clary, I love you."

X.O.X.O.X

Jace can see the fire burning within her from across the room, her eyes narrowed as her feet pound against the treadmill at a pace much faster than normal. Her cheeks, usually flushed from the slightest bit of activity, are as pale and collected as when she sits beside her father's throne, greeting those who seek the king's council. He could mistake her ice-cold fury for concentration if not for her red-hot hair lifting around her like flames. She's terrifyingly beautiful in this state, a series of complete and utter contrasts, a living paradox. Her skin is ice but her body is fire, her eyes are green meadows but glowing like embers. It scares him how much it hurts that she's completely ignoring his arrival, deafened by the uncharacteristically heavy music pumping into her ears.

He slides along the wall until he's behind her, watching her braid swing rhythmically between her shoulder blades. Her short legs take long strides, disturbing the perfect beat he'd memorized during their mornings together. He could recognize her pace in a crowded room, but today, she's a stranger.

He produces his blade, calling it to life as he stalks up behind her, surprised when she lashes out first, breaking her stride and meeting his weapon with a force that vibrates up his arms and into his skull. Pride bursts through him at the agility she demonstrates, at the strategic way she made herself appear vulnerable to her enemy and used it against him. The ferocity in her set jaw puts him on edge as she begins her advancement, blocking his swings and pressing forward with a quick, complicated set of her own. He almost chastises her for letting her emotions fuel this fight, but he can see the rage morph before his eyes, leaving her body as unparalleled anger but turning into determination as it reaches her blade. He's never been more attracted to an opponent as he is in this moment, her delicate and lithe moves accentuated by strength and dexterity.

He can't help the startled gasp that escapes his lungs, pulling him from his slow appraisal of her newly acquired skills. Her recently sharpened weapon had grazed his right side, creating a thin slice deep enough to draw blood through his dark gray shirt. She doesn't recoil as expected. Her hand doesn't flutter to her mouth as apologizes fall from her tongue. She's pulling all the stops today, running on the dark emotions pulled from deep within. There's no doubt in his mind that today, she will kill him if presented the opportunity—a thought that is both invigorating and horrifying. "Princess," he breathes as he finally gains the upper hand, backing her slowly into the corner. His term of endearment, usually capable of pulling a flush to her cheeks, sets her eyes ablaze.

"Don't call me that," she grits out, ducking one of his swings and sliding under his extended arm. Now he's the one backing slowly into the corner, forced to parry her winking blade. "Don't call me anything." His brows furrow, and she takes this momentary distraction to kick his stomach with the heel of her boot, earning an _oof_ , though he doesn't stumble. It's a dirty move, but she shows no guilt. Jace's own jaw grinds as he loses his composure, finding it in him to show her the fatality in breaking the unspoken rules.

He grabs her ankle, spinning it none too gently—judged by her involuntary squeal of pain—and pulling her flush against his chest, bringing his knife to her throat and dropping his lips to her ear. Anger and passion are close companions in the universe of emotions, and he can't tell which is driving his erratic heartbeat. "Identify the emotions you're fighting with, and either use them or lose them." He's clutching her with bruising force, but she doesn't squirm. Instead, she elbows him in the sternum, loosening his grip just enough that she can slip free. Jace feels another one of his fresh wounds split open, his t-shirt dripping in crimson as if he were in an actual battle. The princess is unperturbed by this, her gaze leveled on his. She ignores the damage she's done as she paces back and forth before her, each muscle coiled as she taunts him like prey, leaving him to wonder when she might attack.

Then she leaps at him.

It takes all he has in him not to bat her away like a housefly, to refuse this educational opportunity and let her rise victorious. He can easily kill her, the lack of leverage in the air leaving her vulnerable, but he recognizes that she needs this, to fight out whatever anger is plaguing her.

She's ditched her blade midair, and Jace's own clatters to the ground as she begins punching repeatedly at his bloodied chest, her anger bubbling up and out in the form of hot, fat tears. She's blinded by them, another weakness, but this is no longer a fight between Shadowhunters. "Just as I began to trust you!" she shouts, hitting him hard enough to leave a trail of bruises in the shape of her hands. He's against the wall now, arms spread as he widens her target. Because he now knows what this is about. And he deserves this pain. He deserves every slice and every bruise. He deserves all the pain she's giving him and every ounce inside her. Each punch crumbles another piece of his wall, knowing away another piece of his carefully constructed armor. "I told myself this wouldn't be so bad." Her swings are progressively getting softer, her knuckles split and red with her own blood. "How could you?!" Her voice is but a whisper now. "How could you?"

The complete and utter brokenness in her voice shatters him entirely as he stops her next punch, cupping her injured hands. There's no words he can say to soothe this ache she feels, no amount of excuses to make it acceptable. Her soul is hurting, and it's his fault. "I wasn't strong enough," he whispers, willing her eyes to meet his. Unsurprisingly, they remain glued to her feet. "I've been honed and groomed to fight demonic creatures but fell victim regardless."

" _Victim_?" she snarls, yanking her hands from his and stepping back. He shivers at the loss of her heat. "You think fucking the fae woman makes you a _victim_?! It looked pretty damn willing to me."

Jace sputters, a foreign pang resonating in his chest at her statement. Her arms fall from where they're crossed over her chest, and Jace watches her wedding ring slips from her clenched fist, sounding more like an anvil crashing at terminal velocity than a thin loop of gold.

"You're right. You weren't strong enough." And he knows it's just symbolic because they're betrothal can't be undone regardless of their wishes, but his chest is a nuclear explosion as she stomps away, his eyes unfocused as the door slams hard enough to shake the room.

X.O.X.O.X

His breath wreaks of alcohol as he addresses his Twelves three mornings later. Their eager, freshly-marked attitudes are grating on his nerves as they clumsily attempt to execute the simplest of attacks. "Bellefleur," he barks at the disobedient youth, though it's harsher than he intends, and the boy visibly recoils. "Everyone's dismissed," he sighs, pressing his clammy palm to his forehead as the startled children stumble over their own feet to leave his presence. He's become the terrifying authority figure he used to loathe. "Fuck!" he bellows, driving his fist into the center of the punching bag behind him. It swings back, and he hits it again. Clary's ring in his pocket feels like an anchor, relentless as it pulls him deeper and deeper into the black abyss, suffocation looming in the distance. He releases an aggravated yell, pushing sweaty hair from his eyes as he stops the swinging bag.

"Bro…" Jace inclines his head slightly to see his second-in-command hovering at the doorway. "You scared those Twelves shitless." Jace rolls his eyes. If these children had to go through half of the shit he had to as a Shadowhunter-in-training, a raised voice would barely catch their attention. "Literally, I think that Madeline's kid shit his pants." Jace snorts but doesn't turn or respond. His shoulders are heaving and his knuckles split as he rests his palm flat on the punching bag. "Seriously, though," Sebastian says into the silence, "are you okay?" His unnaturally dark eyes are concerned when Jace finally turns around, shoulders square, chin lifted.

"The Twelves need to be taught authority and obedience. Nothing more, nothing less." Sebastian's eyes widen fractionally, but he says no more, flipping his seraph blade on his fingertips.

"Well, then, General…care to spar?" Jace rolls his shoulders, hearing his stiff joints pop as he shakes his head.

"I've got strategy meetings with the king—"

"Alright, Jace, I get it. I don't need your bullshit excuses just because you're scared you'll lose." Jace's eyes spark, and he lashes out, catching Sebastian's wrist and disarming him. Jace stuffs both weapons into his belt and steals from the room, ignoring his friend's complaints of cheating. He relishes in the silence of the halls, but his peace is momentary.

"You fucked up big."

"Go away, Alec." Jace quickens his pace, but his lanky brother keeps up easily, ignoring Jace's standoffish attitude.

"Isabelle told me what happened." Jace explodes.

"And _how_ would Isabelle know?"

"Clary and she are really good friends, actually—" Jace scoffs.

"Unbelievable."

"What?" Alec is exasperated. Jace stops unexpectedly, and Alec has to circle back to continue the conversation.

"She's even got my family voting against me." Alec crosses his arm.

"In case you forgot, Clary didn't fall into bed with Kaelie. That was all you."

"Yes, yes—I am low-level scum. Don't worry, I got the message." Alec softens, a look he only shares with his parabatai.

"How could you relapse like that, Jace?"

Jace sighs again, a familiar response these days, as he plops onto a nearby bench. "Honestly? I don't even know. It's like one second I was brushing past her to go home to Clary and the next I was naked in bed." Alec's brows furrow, his elbows resting on his knees from his position beside Jace, a large hole in the sleeve of his sweater.

"Nothing in the middle?" Jace shakes his head, tightlipped as Alec appraises the truth in his words. "She charmed you."

"Charming isn't quite the word I'd use to describe Kaelie Whitewillow."

"No, Jace…she used illegal fae magic on you." Jace shrugs heavily.

"So?" Alec sputters, as if the point in his statement is a huge explosion that Jace missed.

"So it's not your fault." The blond laughs humorlessly.

"It's still my fault." He cuts Alec's protests off. "I still let my guard down. I let myself be charmed."

"It wasn't your choice, Jace."

"I still didn't hate it."

"That's a lie." _Is it_?

"It is." Jace runs his hands through his messy locks, tugging aggregately at the strands. "You should have seen how broken she looked, Alec. I've never hated anyone more than I hated myself in that moment."

"We have to tell the princess." It's like Alec is blatantly ignoring the truth in front of him.

"Don't you get it? It won't change anything." He stands, shaking his head. "She put her trust in me, and I destroyed it."

Alec pushes himself from the bench, gripping Jace by the shoulders and shaking lightly. "When was the last time you were sober? Hell, when was the last time you slept?" Jace looks away, ashamed of his downfall. "We are going to fix this. We have to try. I promise on our bond that we will."

"I wouldn't be so quick," Jace mumbles emotionlessly. "I'm good at breaking promises."

* * *

 _PLEASE REVIEW! 3_

 _All My Love_

 _~BallinBlonde21_


	12. Idrisian Idiot

_Wow! Quite the reaction at the last chapter! Glad I could get a rise out of you! Enjoy!_

 _The Shadow Wars_

 _Chapter 12: Idrisian Idiot_

 _Songs:_

 _Part 1: Hurts So Good - Astrid S_

 _Part 2: Cut Your Teeth – Kygo, Kyla La Grange_

 _Part 3: Running Like Colors - A Story Told_

 _Part 4: Take Me Down - The Pretty Wreckless_

* * *

"Jace is an idiot." Clary's head turns slowly to meet the calm, dark gaze of Sebastian Verlac—the very obsidian eyes she'd once been able to drown in, to see endless possibilities like infinite galaxies stretching out before her. Now, they seem hard, guarded even, like a smooth, onyx Bailey surrounding a nearly impenetrable palace. It's somewhat unsettling, to once have known a person's entire soul and now feel shut out, unwanted even.

"You should know better than anyone," she muses, arching her eyebrows. She curses herself for the image her brain presents her, one golden eyebrow lifted perfectly while a smile tugs on the other side of Jace's face. Her subconscious mind has been a menace, slipping in tidbits of joyous memories, yearning for his touch, his gaze. She shakes her head as the General's own right hand man laughs at her, both corners of his mouth lifting to reveal a perfect set of pearly white teeth, once a smile to make her heart melt—now she only sees what it lacks. A chipped incisor, a sarcastic sneer, a throaty, sensual chuckle—she slides over as Sebastian settles on the bench beside her, watching her prod at the uneaten salad with the prongs of her fork. She hadn't eaten much these last few days, and though they'd never say it, her maids have been giving her concerned glances every few minutes, checking to see if the bowl has been touched. "Has the entire planet been informed of the future king's infidelity?" The words are like poison in her mouth, further removing her appetite as she has to drink water just to wash out the taste.

"Only those of us perceptive enough to see." This earns a very unroyal snort from the depths of her throat, nearly sending the water from her nose and onto the ornate oak table before her.

"Jace Herondale is anything but transparent," she counters, leveling her gaze on Sebastian as he leans backward, lacing his fingers behind his head. Her corset keeps her posture straight and the food her hands busy, but his name in her mouth has her heart pounding in her ears, blood rushing to her cheeks and her pupils dilating. He should no longer have this effect over her, this all-consuming type of control. Yet she craves him more than she has before.

"Okay, so maybe Alec told me." Clary rolls her eyes, pushing a tomato around until it leaps from her bowl and splatters to the floor. She watches it absently, using her hair to hide her flaming cheeks as Sebastian continues. "I just wanted to check on you."

This grabs her attention again, reminding her of those blackened eyes, like stone walls rather than a portal to his heart. "I am perfectly fine," she insists, smoothing her leather pants. "This marriage was never anything more than a political union."

"Clary—" She wants to tell him not to say her name in that way, with so much raw emotion and empathy. She wants to tell him to refer to her by her proper title now, that he should no longer speak to her. But she'd be damned if her heart didn't flutter every time his voice called to her, if his body heat radiating in the space between them didn't set her nerves aflame. She doesn't move away when he captures a curl between his middle and forefingers, twirling it gently before pushing it behind her ear.

And then she realizes that it's not Sebastian she's picturing before her. Sebastian's darkness had been replaced with an angelic glow—halo of hair, liquid eyes, bronzed skin. She flinches from his touch like it burns her. "You gave up on me, Sebastian. You gave up on us." The man jerks backward as if slapped, his comforting eyes now wild with accusation.

"You were engaged, Clarissa—"

"Don't call me that," she manages to hiss before he presses forward.

"Loving you had become treason. I had to choose between you and my life." She presses her lips together in a thin line, forcing back her initial argument. They could have fought for their love together. He could have stood by her side while she forced her father to bless their union. Instead, he told her to move forward.

"And you made your decision." His eyes flash like he has more to say, but a noble guard stands before her, bowing quickly before extending his hand in the princess's direction.

"The king has requested your presence immediately," a noble guard interrupts, extending a hand in the princess's direction.

"Duty calls," she mutters, thankful for the distraction. Sebastian's obsidian eyes were terrifyingly easy to get lost in, with the soft crinkles at the edges and the pure emotion emitted from their depths. It's refreshing to see his need for her written so blatantly on his face, unlike staring into the iron shield Jace wears over his heart. She traverses the hallways in a tense silence with the guard, ignoring the fleeting glances the townspeople are giving her in her tight, leather bodysuit, the one she'd worn to the training room this morning.

"Can we have a minute?" King Lucian asks of his guards and council as Clary pushes through the door, her hair and clothes a mess from her fight with Jace, a purple bruise blossoming against her ankle from where she'd attempted to wrench it free. "What is this, Clarissa?" he asks in that condescending tone he wears so well. Clary's breathing becomes inconsistent, heavy as she fights back the anger bubbling within her. She can't respond to that question without sounding like she cares about Jace, without admitting that Luke had predicted her feelings. "Ladies—human ladies, certainly—do not dress like this! They do not act like the world has done some great wrong to them. They don't—"

"I'M NOT HUMAN!" she explodes, leveling a gaze on her father. "You may be human, but I certainly am not." She pushes up her sleeve to reveal the marks Jace had given her, branded into her skin like a living memory of her feelings for him. "I am going to claim Raziel's blood. I am going to join the cause as a warrior."

Luke shakes his head, rising from his seat though managing to keep his voice at an appropriate volume. "You've tried that before, Clarissa, and we see how that ended up."

"You didn't even know I'd left!" she retorts, miffed. "You were too concerned with planning a wedding to aide your political agenda, to busy meeting with your advisors to notice that I'd left the bunker."

"Clarissa Garroway, I am your father, and I—"

"You," she says lowly, the words moving uncontrollably from her brain to her mouth, "are not my father."

X.O.X.O.X

Days pass as Clary drifts listlessly through the bunker, walking carefully mapped pathways as to not cross Jace or any mention of him. She'd returned to her old room by her father, her maids and guards sworn to secrecy by the king. The could be no mention of infidelity in the royal relationship—a treasonous act punishable by execution or exile. Admittedly harsh, but necessary. The royals must uphold certain standards and appearances to maintain peace and morale in their nation. Scandal can often threaten to rip that to shreds, not to mention tarnish a good name. Sure, Clary hadn't caused the infidelity, but even after technological advancements grand enough to allow migration to space, men still run the worlds, and men still blame women.

So Clary sits in seething silence across from Isabelle, who applies a cautious coat of green to the redhead's nails, mumbling on about the ambient temperatures in the hallways and how they are bad for her pores. She'd already discussed the cold food she'd been served at her favorite café, Takis, and the gripping musical she'd just attended in the entertainment sector, strategically avoiding any reference to men, specifically blond men with rippling muscles and luminous golden eyes who also happen to be her brother. This conversation is as calculated as the hallways she'd taken to get to this room, her feet curled beneath her on the navy-blue comforter. "Don't smudge them," Isabelle commands sternly, her dark eyes narrowed in a threat. Clary only huffs in response, and Isabelle looks slightly taken aback, hiding it well as she stacks the nail polish back on its color-coordinated shelf.

It doesn't take a rocket scientist to notice Clary's uncharacteristic irritability. One could chalk it up to the fact that she'd just witnessed her husband cheating on her with the local skank, but in the deepest part of Clary's mind, even she knows that to not be true. This anger inside her—it's slowly consuming her, burning hot through her veins. It's uncontrollable, causing her to burst out with rash responses, lash out for no reason. It's terrifying, but her consciousness refuses to acknowledge how strange it is, doing nothing to prevent the adverse effects of such rage.

She also refuses to admire her fingers, because each time she looks down, her bare left hand is blinding, burning a hole in her chest. It's better to ignore the situation all together, to let it eat her up inside and just pretend everything is fine. Isabelle has been supportive of this endeavor, allowing Clary to crash at her place whenever she needed to hide from Jace or her father or her probing guards. Isabelle had been able to take Clary to places she knew Jace would never be caught dead in—namely, the mall. She'd been biting her tongue when she really wanted to give her opinions, to vouch for her brother. Until now, that is.

"So, Clary, listen…"

"Isabelle," Clary says in a low, warning tone. She has no desire to tear out her friend's throat, but there's no telling what may happen when this new mindset takes over. With freshly manicured nails, the princess can do some damage.

"Alec's been bothering me to tell you about some new information." The room is tense, but Clary's curiosity keeps her quiet, allowing Isabelle to continue. "Kaelie used a potion on him. Fae magic—strong stuff. That's why he—" Clary finally cuts her off with a harsh glare.

"Jace," the redhead spits out, his name like frostbite on her tongue, "is the strongest Shadowhunter alive. He has no excuse."

"Shadowhunters aren't impervious to magic, Clary. We aren't invincible! Why do you think Valentine enslaving fairies is such a cause for concern? Why do you think we protect our warlocks more than our ammunition stores? Magic is powerful. It wins wars." Clary's stopped listening, ignoring the infallible logic her friend is trying to pound into her. Because it makes perfect sense. Because it gives Jace a reasonable excuse for what he's done. Because it rids him of the fault. Because she no longer can project her anger on someone else and must focus it on herself. "I'm not saying it was right. I'm just saying you can't keep living like this. Can't keep blaming Jace for something he hand no control over." Clary's new thought processes don't allow her to mull this over. It just flashes red, clouding her judgement, her vision. "Come to think of it—" Isabelle mutters, before rising and rifling for something in her closet.

Clary's barely paying attention when she returns, her reflexes reacting on impulse to catch Isabelle wrist as she's waving something in the air beside her. "Ouch," Isabelle grumbles with furrowed brows, and Clary releases her friend with wide eyes, surprised by the red marks she's left behind. Isabelle's moved on from that, though, staring at the stick in her hand as it glows fluorescent purple before darkening again. "You've been drugged, too," Isabelle confirms, rubbing her injured wrist with a wince. "This anger, this hatred—it isn't _you_ , Clary." This sets her consciousness into overdrive. Voicing the exact thoughts at the back of her mind, Isabelle's words fill her with fire.

"And how would you know _me_?!" she finds her tongue spewing on its own accord. "Did you know me as a child? Do you know what it feels like to watch your mother die?! Do you know that kind of anguish, Isabelle? That kind of uselessness?" Before her heart can ache at how her words have affected her friend, Clary turns on her heel and runs from the apartment, waving off concerned guards before barricading herself in her old bedroom, hoping no one comes to look for her.

X.O.X.O.X

The sand slips through his clenched fist as the moon arcs its way into the sky, a slow breeze taking the grains and dispersing them onto the barren planet before him. The ashes of his people, his parents—captured in the wind and drifting farther away until nothing remains. The bones of his city, once grand and filled with those he loved and loved him, disintegrated. Yet, he keeps returning, staring out at the ruins like his will to remember can bring it all back, breathe new life into the cracked earth, push water through the dried streams.

Unremarkably, nothing happens as he sits in what's left of his childhood home, the dirt where his parents' bed used to sit, where nightmares would drive him to snuggle between the pair to disperse the monsters and quell his fears. It's where he feels closest to them, like if he closed his eyes, he could reach out and grab his mother's hand, hear his father's voice.

"I messed up, Mom," he whispers to the moon, eyes tipped up with the stars swirling in his wet gaze, a broken lilt choking up his words. The shattered look in Clary's eyes—betrayal, anguish, _confirmation_ —it stirred something within him, like a hazy fog lifting only slightly to allow a glimpse of a dream, a memory, an embrace that was unwelcomed but familiar, arms that were not the pale freckled ones of his wife, but rather thick with creams and tans, hair that was not curls but silky and ending in vines, pink wings fluttering as his eyes fell shut.

He'd done the very thing he'd promised he'd never do. And if it shattered Clary, it obliterated Jace. He can't look at himself in the mirror, can't meet other's eyes as they greet him in passing. His only solace is the lifelessness of his home planet, another reminder of his shortcomings, his uselessness. As his ship maneuvered further from Idris, his runes used to fight magic had begun to glow, the memories flooding back like a horror film he never meant to see. Her sticky lips hard against his, her makeup smudging against his cheeks as she forced him closer—it repulsed him enough that he had Church take over the controls, vomiting into the bucket beside the hatch he used to cool engines.

Jace turns slowly as footsteps approach, a cloaked Alec approaching with tentative steps, keeping his distance until he's able to calculate his brother's reaction. When Jace turns fully, he can't hold himself back, the agony working its way up his throat in one, violent, tearless sob. Alec sinks down beside him, and Jace for once does not bother to maintain a strong, emotionless façade. Instead, he allows Alec to put a warm arm around his shivering frame, letting his raw emotions escape in the form of throaty yells echoing in the distance.

Alec waits without judgement, without word, a silent presence letting Jace know that he's there, that he'll always be. His shoulders shudder with one, heaving breath as he settles, staring out into the quickly blackening night with bleary eyes. "I destroy everything I touch," he whispers, so lowly he's unsure if Alec will hear.

"You give yourself too much credit." Jace flicks his eyes up and finds a half smile stretching on Alec's face, enough to bring a laugh from his chest. "You can't help what Kaelie did to you, Jace." He shakes his head furiously, curls falling into his face as he chews his lower lip, fighting another bout of emotions.

"I should have been stronger. I should have—" Kaelie's magic is still slowly wearing offing, bringing new memories with each passing minute. "Clary hates me." Alec grips his shoulder, forcing Jace to look up.

"She doesn't hate you, Jace. She _can't_ hate you."

"You don't understand. I broke her trust." Alec laughs incredulously, his icy eyes disbelieving.

"You've always been able to read women, but something about Clary makes you so _blind_." Jace's shoulders slump. "The princess loves you. Even now."

"You can't know that."

"Anyone with eyes knows that!"

Jace licks his lips, shaking his head slightly. "You didn't see the way she looked at me…like she wanted to kill me."

"You think you're the only one under Kaelie's control?" Alec asks abruptly, and Jace's spine stiffens, his golden gaze cutting to Alec's. "Isabelle tested Clary."

"I'll kill that bitch," Jace growls, clambering to his feet. Only Alec's strong grip on his elbow holds him back.

"Kaelie will get what is coming to her Jace. For now, you just have to wait."

"What do you mean?" Jace isn't moving anymore, instead, staring longingly at the bright spot in the sky that is Idris, where Clary is, where his heart is.

"Clary doesn't have the runes to fight the magic like you do. It just has to run its course."

"How long will it take?"

"Magnus says it depends on how strong it is. Anywhere from days to weeks."

Jace rolls his eyes. "Great, so even the warlock knows of my marital troubles."

"He cares for the princess, Jace." Alec's face softens. "But he knows that you'd never purposefully hurt her."

"Can't I just tell her what's happening? Snap her out of the trance or something?" Alec shakes his head.

"Izzy tried that. Whether it's Kaelie's doing or not, Clary denies it." Jace runs a hand roughly through his hair, beginning to make slow progress toward his ship. "She's going to hurl some shit at you for the next few days, Jace. You have to remember it's not her." Jace feels like light is slowly filling every inch of him, making him lighter than air, a weight lifting from his shoulders. Clary doesn't hate him. She doesn't hate him.

"I can take it," he says with conviction, plotting ways to show Clary the man he's become, the man he wants to be for her. "Church, plot a course for Idris."

X.O.X.O.X

The kohl Isabelle had so meticulously rimmed Clary's eyes with is smudged as she drives her fist into the dummy's abdomen, watching in grim satisfaction as it sways backward under her force. Her hair falls in untamable curls, lifting around her like a wildfire as she continues her assault on the stuffed person, imagining it had bleached hair and piercing blue eyes. She wants nothing more than for this stupid punching bag to be Kaelie, bleeding and begging for mercy as Clary refuses to pull her swings, watching the light slowly escape from her face as she realizes Clary holds her life in her hands. Sweat is beading on her hairline, sliding down her cheek before splattering on the floor, ringing like an explosion in Clary's ears.

All she can see is the curve of Kaelie's bare back, her wings tearing open the skin of it as she braces her hands against Jace's headboard. Her mind is filled with the sound of Jace's moans, her veins ice as she freezes her heart, ignoring the sadness, the betrayal, only allowing pure, unbridled rage to course through her. Her senses are acute, the Shadowhunter in her itching for a fight. So when she hears something clatter to the ground behind her, she whirls, leveling her hardened gaze on Kaelie reaching down to retrieve the knife she'd dropped.

She brandishes it sloppily, like she expects Clary to charge forward and imaple herself on it. "Stupid fae," Clary says with an eyeroll, rolling out her stiff shoulders so they pop back into place. She unsheathes the knife from her thigh slowly, almost erotically as Kaelie stands with a shaking fist. Clary laughs maliciously as she disarms Kaelie, watching both knives find balance in the wall behind the fairy.

"I was looking for Jace." She keeps her chin square, but there's a quiver in her voice. Clary has never felt this angry before, this powerful, this murderous. And it feels good.

"With a seven inch blade in your hand? Angel, I know you were probably into some kinky shit, but that's sadistic." There's venom in her smile as the words roll off her tongue, her fingers wrapping around the hilt of the sword strapped across her back, bringing it around so she can twirl it on her fingertips. It's ironic how her mother's sword had been forged by her ancestors specifically to destroy the likes of Kaelie, how easy it would be to drive it through her chest and throw her to the side. Kaelie licks her sticky pink lips. Standing a good foot taller in her silvery stilettoes, she seems to be analyzing the situation, wondering if she should fight or flee. "Thinking you could toy with the royals," Clary growls with a soft laugh, "with _me_." She's stalking Kaelie, caging her into the corner of the room

"You couldn't hurt me, princess," Kaelie sneers, unfolding her blindingly pink wings and fluttering them. She'd be beautiful if not for the animosity in her blue glare. "I can do whatever I want to you. You can't stop me." If Kaelie had an aurora, it would be the color of mud, and the only emotion Clary feels in the presence of this manipulative rat is disgust. She curls her fingers into fists and returns her sword to her back, watching victory cross Kaelie's eyes. The fairy plasters a slimy grin on her face just as Clary's right hook catches her cheek, her leg sweeping out to knock the girl off balance. She lands on her thin wings, and they make a satisfying crunching noise.

"Are you threatening me?" Clary laughs incredulously, watching blood seep from the blonde's nose. Even more anger fills her, rattling her insides, splitting her open with the force of an explosion. "You should not threaten me." Her fingers are wrapped in wiry strands of bleached hair, pressing Kaelie's injured cheek into the mat as the woman cries out. She cranks her fist back as Kaelie's eyes squeeze shut, only to have her elbow caught in a steady, unwavering grip. "Let me go," she says in a dead voice, one that strikes fear even in her own heart.

"Get out of here," the assailant instructs Kaelie just as Clary wrenches free, whirling on the person who'd stopped her revenge. Kaelie's heels clack down the hallway as she waddles away, cradling her injured face.

"Simon." His name escapes in a growl, residual hatred for the blond seeping into her vision, coating it in red. "Don't touch me again." Simon's in a submissive position, his palms raised, taking slow steps backward as Clary begins to circle him, waiting to close in.

"Clary, come on. You know this isn't you."

"What isn't me?!" she yells. "Am I not allowed to be a strong, independent woman?" Her voice is cracking, raising an octave at a time as tears sting the corners of her eyes. "Must I be weak in everyone's eyes? A humble damsel among seas of brilliant warriors?"

"You are not a warrior, Clarissa. You are a mundane." Clary glowers, shaking her head and ripping her knife from the wall, taking a good chunk with it. "And that's not what I meant. You're kind, Clary. Compassionate, forgiving—those are not weaknesses."

"If I'm not weak," she tells him, flicking the knife Kaelie had brought in his direction. He catches it with the lithe of a Shadowhunter, but he refuses to meet her eyes, "then fight me."

"No, Clary—" her eyes flash, and her arm extends, the knife grazing Simon's shoulder before burying itself in the wall again.

"My point exactly." She pushes her tongue against her canine, shaking her head slightly. "You know what, Simon. I really thought you were different than the others. That in your eyes, I wasn't just some lowly human. That I was your equal."

"That's not true—" She cuts him off by lifting her hand.

"You Shadowhunters are too full of pride. You say you're fighting a war of equality, to aboloish the castes and the stigmas that come with being different, unangelic, _normal_. But it's all a sham because if you didn't have our battles to fight for, you would be just as lowly and unimportant as the rest of us."

"Clary, stop it." She unsheathes her weapons one at a time, starting with her mother's sword, spiking the dummy's head with it. Her knifes are next, each landing in the hilt of the previous as she throws them at the wall. It's when she whispers her seraph blade to life and it glows blue in her hands that Simon stops his pointless mumbling to look at her.

"This lowly 'mundane' is actually going to fight for her people, even for assholes like you and Jace that think everyone is just as they seem." It's the blade Jace had given to her, so she feels no remorse when she flattens it against her leg and snaps it in half, leaving the broken pieces in her wake.

* * *

 _They aren't going to get back together like lickety split or anything, but it will be worth it. Also S/O to Jling for the awesome song suggestions! I love them and am probably going to use them in future chapters!_

All My Love

~BallinBlonde21


	13. Clary and Clarity

_HEY UPDATE! Sorry I fell off the grid, literally. I've been camping and have had no access to anything until now. BUT I'M BACK SO ENJOY 3 3_

 _The Shadow Wars_

 _Chapter 13: Clary and Clarity_

 _Songs:_

 _Part 1: Drinkin' Too Much - Sam Hunt_

 _Part 2: Kerosene - Armors_

 _Part 3: A Ceasefire - The Native Architects_

* * *

The plan had been to make Kaelie believe they knew nothing of her control on Clary. It hadn't been hard, considering how lonely Jace felt inside everytime he passed the color red. Currently, his back is pressed against her closed bedroom door. He slides down the length of it until he's seated on the floor, elbows balanced on knees, just listening to her breathe through the wood. It's such a tangible representation of the wedge he's driven between them, how his weakness always takes away the ones he loves. It's his curse but also his shield. There's no disappointment if he never grants anyone access, lets them see who he really is beneath this bullshit façade. There's no way his cursed love can hurt anyone if he doesn't let it touch them.

He flips the empty bottle of Jack in his hand, his bloodshot eyes falling shut as he allows his neck to relax, his head falling forward. "What are you doing here?" It's not a kind voice asking as he looks up, meeting Sebastian's dark, menacing eyes. Jace had always felt somewhat unsettled by the two blackholes in his second's face, how they filled with childlike wonder in the throes of battle, how they sparkled with pride after a recent kill. Those eyes hold no remorse. They aren't weighted down by suffocating guilt. They don't look haunted by what they do, what their life is. There's no empathy, no humanity.

Jace laughs once, trying now to focus on the swirling image of the man before him, squinting one eye at the figure looming above him. "What does it look like? I'm visiting my wife." He's fairly certain he heard Sebastian roll his eyes, but his own vision is bleary, fuzzy with the sheer volume of alcohol sloshing in his stomach.

"You know she doesn't want to see you. Especially not like this." Sebastian grabs him by the collar and hauls him to his feet, pressing him against the wall. "I should really knock you out for what you did to her." There's uninhibited anger in that man's voice now, but all Jace can do is go slack in his grip.

"Do it," he tells Sebastian in a small voice. At least he can still feel pain. In fact, pain is the only feeling he has right now, waiting for the fist to connect to his cheek. But Sebastian releases him, leaving him leaning limply against the wall. He hadn't come to Clary's room to start a fight, especially with his own men, but a striking thought sobers him, standing to his full height to tower over the other Shadowhunter. "What are _you_ doing here?" He'd never known his second to make housecalls to any women, and most certainly not to his wife. Sebastian smirks, refusing to cower. Jace's eyes had never seen clearer, his muscles never been more prepared to throw a punch.

"I came to check on Clary. We used to be friends, you know." The jealousy flaring in his chest deflates as he realizes what he's just done. He'd assumed her infidelity. Nope, that was still his shortcoming.

"Please, I can't deal with this right now." He's shaking his head, his weakness on full display as Sebastian contemplates him with somber eyes. He'd not known that man to have a compassionate bone in his body but is visibly surprised when he just nods, his clipped dark hair swaying slightly with the motion. He turns to go without another word, his shuffling bootsteps fading down the hallway as Jace slumps back against the door, thunder echoing around him like the breaking of his heart.

With his ear pressed against the door, he can hear her crying, paper tearing, glass shattering. He wants to bust down this door and go to her, shout to the angels his love for her, get down on his knees and beg for forgivness.

Instead, he stands there, relishing in the sounds of her existance. Wondering if it's all he will ever get to do.

X.O.X.O.X

Her nights have become later and later as she sits in the pool of pale moonlight, fingers flying furiously over the Shadowhunter codex, memorizing each rune's purpose, each demon's weakness. A stack of history books has grown on her bedside table, new knowledge of war and crime filling her mind. The Shadowhunters work to paint a perfect picture of themselves, righteous, sacrificial saviors working to end divisions between races and save those incapable of protecting themselves. Yet many do not see Downworlders and mundanes as equals, anyone else is lesser to the children of Raziel. Nephilim are the closest to godly one can be. Of course they feel the superiority of their blood, their abilities.

She opens her palm, the stele balanced evenly against her unmarked skin, burning with power. The few irazes she'd been given in her lifetime had long ago faded, returning her to her normal, mundane self, the princess the world knows her as. Weak. Powerless. Despite obvious effort, the entire planet will soon know her as the woman who wasn't enough, who within a few short weeks had driven her young husband to a fae woman's bed. She drops the stele onto her mattress where it bounces before settling in the divot created by her weight. She watches it carefully, knowing if she lets her mind drift even a little, it will send her spiraling into an insufferable pit of despair.

Someone shifts on the other side of her door, working furiously to undo the locking rune she'd drawn on the knob, warding off any unwanted guests, though Shadowhunters never cared for other people's wishes, going about as if they're above it all. She's almost expecting to be hit with a wave of gold when it swings open on silent hinges. Instead, a tall man with dark hair clipped closely to his head and staggering blue eyes hovers in the threshold, his body taut as the bowstring strapped across his back. _Alec_ , Clary recognizes immediately from the short dinner with the Lightwoods and the startling similarities between this boy and Isabelle. Unearthly beautiful, but in a cool, crisp way—not blindingly light like Jace, not mysteriously dark like Sebastian.

It's the kind of beautiful that is what it is, though those blue eyes, clear as ice, seem to swim with secrets, the kind that can turn catastrophic if revealed. It's the first person she's encountered that has rendered her absolutely and unequivocally emotionless. No unbridled anger, no paralyzing desire—Alec Lightwood has her feeling completely neutral. "Come in," she says gently, and his booted feet move forward just enough to close the door behind him. He's tall, with lean muscles and a severe expression, yet his looming presence does not fill her with fear. He doesn't speak, twirling an arrow on his fingertips as he scans the book titles beside her before settling his gaze on the stele by her hip. "Surprise," she mutters meekly, flopping onto her back to release herself from the scrutinizing, somewhat distasteful gaze of the strange man.

She hears him shift uncomfortably, clearing his throat to garner her attention again. She wants to snap at him, to tell him she does not wish to speak about Jace, especially with the likes of him, but he's not really looking at her, rather through her, as if remembering an ancient history playing out on her pale skin. He shakes his head as if to clear it. "I'm not here to discuss the General, if that's what you're thinking." Clary visibly relaxes, pushing rogue curls from her face as she rises to her feet, gripping the stele in her fist once more. It hums with electricity, with power.

"Then why are you here, Alec Lightwood?" His full name gives her power, reminding the boy of her higher rank, of the respect she deserves. He bows quickly, wildly almost, before righting himself. His eyes still hover on the angelic object in her hand, undoubtedly astounded it responds to her touch, a simple mundane.

"Forgive me, princess, for staring," he utters politely. "I had heard rumors of a Nephilim queen, but I never believed them to be true until now." She presses her lips together without response, urging him to explain his presence immediately. Though small, the princess can be quite vengeful and terrifying when pressed. Images of Hodge Starkweather flash through her mind, but she hastily pushes them aside without remorse. "Sebastian Verlac asked that you be given this," he announces with curious eyes as he pulls a small, black box from one of his many pockets, extending it to her. With hesitant fingers, she takes it, turning it over in her hands. "It's a Sensor," he explains without prompt. "It discovers areas of thick demonic activity and transmits the location to the military."

He's returned the arrow to its quiver and now is drumming his fingertips nervously along her dresser. She squints at the small, unintimidating device. "Why would he give me this?" she wonders aloud, forgetting the other presence in the room momentarily. "He knows not of my secrets." Alec takes a tentative step closer, flicking a switch on the Sensor so it shakes in her hand, a red light blinking in time with a clicking noise. It's scanning—she realizes as it finally settles in her hand, undisturbed by the surroundings. No demons in her bedroom. Or not _real_ ones, at least.

"Sensors are not only for Shadowhunters," Alec says gently, but clinically, reminding her of Simon's no nonsense tone when teaching her. "They are given to Royals as an early warning device. Verlac must be worried about your wellbeing." There's a new, smug look on Alec's face as he says that. It's not an accusation, but close enough.

"Sebastian and I were romantically involved before my betrothal to the General if that is what you're implying."

"I wasn't implying anything," he says innocently, moving to observe the artwork hanging from her walls. She ducks behind her hair to hide her blush, wondering if he can feel the raw emotion she put into those pieces—lust, desire, betrayal. His face does not change when he finally stops. "With your current situation, we've also been instructed to increase your security detail—"  
"You mean because of my separation from Jace," she hisses, daring Alec with his eyes to mention his brother.

"I mean because Valentine has shown great interest in you." Again, blood rushes to her face, tinging her cheeks. As much as she denies it, her world, her thoughts, all revolve around Jace.

"Thank you for bringing the Sensor over, Alec. You're dismissed." He opens his mouth before smartly snapping it shut and disappearing behind the closed door.

The weight of the Sensor is comfortable in her hand, and her eyes wander toward it. It thrums with energy in her grip, pulsating with power that urges her toward action, coordinates displayed dimly on the small screen. A slow smile spreads across her face as she gathers her gear, tugging it on quickly before slipping into the hallway, seraph blade in hand.

Slaughtering demons is just the release she needs.

X.O.X.O.X

She can't feel the ichor burning through her skin as she commands the cockpit, guiding her ship between the layering of stars in the vacuum of space. It's a numb silence that mimics the effect of tragedy, an event she'd become all too accustomed with. Her mother's death had been met with silence, when her chest ached too much to cry, her lungs to constricted to scream. It was the apologies and condolences that fell on deaf ears as the world passed by her in shades of gray. It was the feeling that her skin was a size too small, trapping her in a prison of emotionlessness. It was the heatless pyre that returned her mother to dust. The sleepless nights, the impassive days, the untouched meals—this monster had taken root just below her skin, feeding on everything that made her human. Her compassion, her joy, her vitality—they had become buried so deeply that she felt more like a machine than a person, more demon than angel.

And then _he_ came along. A man surrounded with as much darkness as she was, with a past just as heartbreaking and walls just as strong. And the darkness wasn't so lonely. And after years of suffocating, she could finally breathe. Her secrets had flooded the space between them, and he'd worked to unlock her truest self, fought through her defenses until he pushed past the anger and sadness and guilt, until he found the lost soul buried within. It was so damn ironic that the very man who pulled her from the depths of her shadows then threw her even further into them. Tragedy was in her soundless steps filled with regret as she ran away from the man she'd trusted blindly, violently, and carelessly. It was in the sorrowful stares, the ignored advice, the incessant knocking.

But mostly, this tragedy is her continued love for him, a love so irrevocable, so irrational. It's the fluttering of her heart every time something smells like him, the quickening of breath at every flash of gold. Jace is the type of man father's warn their daughters about. A man with a tongue as sharp as it is smooth, able to slither his way into the hearts of millions and tear his way out, without once damaging himself or his reputation. He's the type of man to leave women walking around with a Jace-shaped hole in their chests and still have them begging for more. She's spent her life avoiding and hating these men, and now, she's drawn to him, to the mystery of him. Even now, with burned skin and darkened eyes, she can't help but wish to be with him, to be one with him.

If one had asked for the cognitive reasoning behind Clary's stop on Alicante, she'd have no answer. That is, until she finds the golden bird pushed back in the thick covering of trees at the edge of the field, knowing that he brought her there, that their bond had guided her to the desolate planet. It doesn't take her long to find him, sitting with his back to her, elbows balanced on knees, sunshine hair blowing lightly in the breeze. He's still dressed for combat, his weapons distributed loosely at his sides as his head tips toward the sky, soaking in the last of daylight before being plunged into darkness.

She watches his silhouette carefully, memorizing every curve of his muscled body against the dying light, the way the golden rays seem to cling to him and extend the blond curls falling across his shoulders, deepening the honeyed tan split by dark runes glowing dully in the dusky shadows. Too upset to call out, too weak to stay away, her booted feet carry her slowly to his perch in the sand, probably once a shoreline of a long dried up lake. Each hesitant footfall is surer than the last as his soul calls to her, begging to be near, to be one.

Sebastian's dark, calculating gaze had solidified something in her. It was cold, the way he looked at her, almost like he wanted to own her. Instead of inciting the blossoming feelings of attraction and love in her stomach, it made her want to move away, to shrink in on herself until she disappeared. It drove her true feelings to the surface, his declarations of his desires exposing her own in the form of warm, syrupy eyes and a leisurely smirk. It brought up the smells of early coffee and the sounds of exertion and clacking swords. His throaty laugh, the soft voice he uses with a gentle grip on her chin, the depth of those eyes in the rare moments he truly exposes himself—even with Sebastian throwing his love at her, she can think of none other than Jace.

Her mind and her body exist in complete contradiction, though. One repulsed by her fluttering heart, reminding her of the way it was ripped from her chest when she found another woman in her apartment, while the latter shows no hesitancy in closing the gap between their bodies, their minds, their souls. Something about sunsets and the sound of a gentle wind stirring the leaves in the forest steadies her brain for just one moment, a millisecond of true clarity, where she can see past the shroud of hatred that now seems to foreign though had become familiar the past few weeks. Veil lifted, she can see only the aura of agony surrounding her once confident and passionate husband. It's in the hunch of his shoulders, the way he startles when her feet finally stir the sand beside him.

Nobody has ever startled Jace Herondale.

He's the picture of a broken man, with hollowed cheeks and bloodshot eyes, filled with so much hope that he quickly squashes by drawing in a shaky breath. He drinks her in like it's the last time he'll ever see her, like he might be saying goodbye. There's no uncertainty when she falls to her knees and crashes her lips against his, his eyes widening before finally falling shut. His hands come up to cup her cheeks, his rough thumbs running gingerly across them as she pulls him closer by the curls at his neck, wanting to dissolve into him, to have no space in between. She's the first to pull away, gasping for air, but his hands don't drop from her cheeks. Instead, one slides back into her hair, combing through the soft curls with a mesmerized look crossing his face.

"It's like I'm seeing you for the first time," she murmurs, pressing a kiss into his opened palm, blinking rapidly like any moment the anger might return. It had been so stupid, so childish to be angry at this man, who quite obviously loves her and has been agonizing over this for weeks. It hadn't been his fault. He'd been under her influence, drugged, _raped_. And Clary had made him suffer for it. "I'm so sorry," she says again, tears staining her cheeks. Jace cups her neck and brings her in for another kiss, softer but no less passionate.

There's no anger in those molten eyes when he looks at her, no hurt or sadness, only pure, unadulterated love. "I've done awful things to you, Jace. I…I," she chokes on her words, and Jace pulls her into his warm embrace. He smells like war and sweat and summer, and it feels like she's coming home.

"You're hurt," he says gently, skimming his fingers along the edges of her ichor burns. It's a tentative motion, like at any moment she might jerk away. She doesn't, merely watching in silence as he pulls his stele from his boot and traces healing runes onto her skin, brows furrowed in concentration, eyes shining with new light. She wants to kiss him again, with his lower lip trapped between his teeth and his focus on the shredded leather covering her thigh. She wants to fist his shirt and pull him on top of her. But she can't touch him again, immobilized by the crushing guilt.

"I'm sorry," she whispers again when his hand finally slips from her leg. She can't even look at him, can't meet those eyes that she knows will hold nothing but understanding. She doesn't deserve it. Not from him.

"That hasn't been you. Kaelie has you under her magic, too." His words are tender, understanding, as he loops his arm around her shoulders, pulling her closer into his side. She snuggles into the crook of his neck, and he strokes her hair, content to hold her as she cries into his shirt, comfortable in his arms once more.

"Why has it suddenly passed?" she sniffles, pulling away only slightly to find his downturned lips.

"You're no longer within her radius of power. Once you return, it will affect you again." There's sadness in his voice, and the agony surrounding him returns like a cloak.

"Will I remember this?"

"Probably not." She pulls away fully, reaching into his boot to produce his stele once more, holding it out to him with determination.

"Mark me, Jace. Make me yours." He falters, eyes flickering between her hand and her face as she rises to her feet. A moment later, he wraps his hand around hers, lowering it.

"Soon, but not like this." She wants to burst into tears again, but she holds it in, comforted when Jace pulls her into his side. "You'll get through this, and we'll be together again." He bites his lip, and Clary can't help but lean in to kiss him. "I love you, Clary." Her mouth parts millimeters before his, and he takes that as an opportunity to kiss her. "I'll always love you. Even if it kills me."

"I won't remember this," she whispers into his mouth, and a slow, easy smile breaks out across his lips.

"Then I'll just have to remind you." She slowly lowers herself onto her back in the sand, sprawled out beneath him as lightning bugs float around them, flickering like the stars above. "I love you," he chants, pressing leisurely kisses against her neck, boxing her in with his elbows as he slowly moves across her collarbones.

"Let's just stay here," she tells him urgently, pleading with her eyes to say yes. His face drops into her shoulder, his heavy sigh enough an answer.

"I'll be deployed soon. You have duties to your country." He kisses the tip of her nose. "It will wear off. I swear on the angel." They don't speak of it anymore, allowing a few more minutes of bliss before the inevitable reality returns.

* * *

 _So?!_

All My Love

~BallinBlonde21


	14. She's a (pyro)MANIAC

_Update! Please excuse any mistakes and enjoy!_

The Shadow Wars

Chapter 14: She's a (pyro)MANIAC

 _Songs:_

 _Part 1: Don't Go Home Without Me - LIGHTS_

 _Part 2: Don't Hurt Like It Used To - Billy Currington_

 _Part 3: Burn the Bed - Candi Carpenter_

 _Part 4: Hold Onto Me - Mayday Parade_

* * *

The morning light is edged with gray, her window showing her the makings of a thunderstorm. It's strange how the projection always seems to match her mood, a melancholy display for a lonely ache reverberating in her heart. She sits on her unmade bed with the tattered remains of her sketchcpad propped in her lap, shredded images of Jace littering the floor like confetti. His eyes, his smirk, his chipped tooth—the all gawked up at her, at her reddened and tearstained cheeks, mocking her. _Stupid_ , the call out to her as another droplet falls against the shaded edge of Jace's jawline. It's true, though—that she'd done this to herself. She's succeeded in pushing everyone who she's ever cared about away in a matter of days, leaving her loathsome thoughts to rattle around in her brain, building pressure and gaining momentum until bursting from her with a collection of shattered mirrors and bloody knuckles. She can't look at her fractured reflection across the room, knowing it will only match what she feels inside.

It's why she gasps in dismay when a tentative voice calls her name through the crack in her doorway, the knob slowly turning to reveal a mop of dark hair and tan skin. "Oh, Clary," Simon sighs. It's not condescending, the way he says it. It's comforting, filled with empathy as he takes her up in his arms. He's so unlike the Simon of their childhood, all lanky limbs and scabbed knees. This Simon is corded with wiry muscle, holding her like he can shield her from everything that threatens her existence. He is unhindered by the glasses that once perched on his nose, loaded down by weapons Shadowhunters deemed to be mandatory. What's the same, though, is the steadfast placidity he seems to radiate, his touch relieving the tension and anguish from her body, expelling stanch rage holding her hostage for the past few weeks and allowing the grief to flow freely. He doesn't flinch when her tears dampen his gray t-shirt, nor does he shy away when her sobs become unhinged, turning into tormented wails that might even send the guards running in fear. He merely smooths his palm down her back, holding her head close against his shoulder.

By the time she settles, the heavy patter of rain surrounds them, punctuated only by her laden breaths. "I should have told you," she whispers, shrinking in on herself as Simon moves to sit beside her, brushing aside the remains of her art. She reaches into her back pocket, producing the witchlight her mother had given her before her death, blue light flooding between her fingertips, disrupting the heavy layering of gray.

He's not angry when he asks why she didn't, his chocolate eyes soft in their curiosity. She's justified her answer to this question for so long that it doesn't seem fit when she explains it to him. "The King is not a Shadowhunter…it's one of the appeals of his rule—being to relate to the common folk and all—" she shakes her head, clearing her thoughts as she becomes sidetracked. "Anyways, my mother," she smiles at the thought of her shimmering green eyes, a mirror of Clary's own, "she was a Nephilim. A powerful one at that." Clary bites her lip, but Simon's gentle prompting has her continuing. "They thought it would be dangerous for me. That if people discovered their princess was Nephilim, they might revolt when I came into rule, that they'd consider me adopted, unfit for their throne."

"That's ridiculous," Simon says, squinting his eyes like it's the craziest thing he's heard since the time Clary thought Link and Zelda were the same character. "Raziel's blood always presents itself. It's the dominant trait."

Clary shrugs. "And then there were all those ancient traditions stating Nephilim could not marry mundanes and continue to be Shadowhunters."

"Those were abolished after the War of the Skies!" Clary bites her lip.

"Yeah, well, nobles not holding out in their beliefs were often attacked by radical traditionalists. Shadowhunters might be okay with having a human be the face of their planet, but many don't believe them to be equal." Simon stiffens beside her, undoubtedly remembering her hostile words in the training room. "Basically, the secret is kept to ensure the safety of the royal family and the peace among the planet."

"So you need me to keep this secret?" Clary blanches. Is Simon planning on shouting her lineage to the entire universe?

"I can't make you do that, Simon. And you know Luke would never have the heart to convict you of treason."

Simon cocks his head to the side contemplatively. "Just give me a second to come up with a list of terms." She shoulders him then, a laugh escaping her aching soul as he turns his twinkling eyes on her. "Of course I'll keep your secret, Clary! Besides, if I didn't you'd probably tell everyone I wet my pants during the lesson on greater demons in second grade."

"You bet your ass, I would," Clary responds with a smile, a weight lifted from her shoulders. Not only has she released herself from this binding secret, but the anger within her had dissipated, the hollowness filled by laughter and a little sadness. It feels good to feel again though. "Ow," she complains finally as she glances down at her bloodstained fist.

Simon silently picks shards of glass from her sounds, using his stele to apply a swift healing rune to her cuts. "I never thought I'd be marking you," he mumbles in slight disbelief as he shoves his stele back into his pocket.

"Did you come here just to tend my wounds, Dr.?" she inquires, realizing that Simon's appearance at her bedroom door seemed out of place, considering she'd threatened him only a few days earlier. This causes him to rub the back of his neck, a nervous tick both he and Jace seem to share. Maybe it's a Shadowhunter thing?

"No, I…uh…I came to tell you that…well, I've asked Isabelle on a date." Clary's eyebrows shoot up. "But if that makes you uncomfortable I can cancel," he pushes out in one breath, his eyes widening wildly at her lack of response.

She grabs his waving wrists and holds them together in front of her. "I assure you, Si. Nothing would make me happier."

Relief flashes across his face as she releases him. "Thank the Angel because that woman terrifies me." She laughs, a real, hearty laugh, but it's cut short when Simon's face sobers. "Really, though, Clary. Jace is a mess. You should think about talking to him."

She catches her drawing's steady stare from the floor, her heart fluttering. She's not ready to forgive him. She's not entirely sure she can forgive him, but she'd be damned if she didn't admit her heart raced at the thought of him, all heavenly fire and seduction. "I'll…I'll think about it," she promises as she shoos Simon from her room, determined to make her rounds of apologies before the day is done.

X.O.X.O.X

"You were right." The raven-haired girl glances up with startled brown eyes, a mascara wand hovering in the air. Clary had just burst through the door, curls spilling from the loose bun on top of her head as Isabelle appraised her disheveled appearance. Admittedly, Clary had just thrown on a pair of sweats and a tank top over her sports bra, but her friend didn't have to make it so apparent how unfashionable she is.

"Took you long enough," she mutters, returning her gaze back to the mirror, stroking her eyelashes into thick strands. "I'm always right." She returns the wand to the tube and rubs her glossy lips together as she twists the top on. "And because I'm always right, may I ask which particular instance you are referring to?"

"Kaelie used magic on me." Isabelle nods in agreement as she rises from the vanity, using her fingers to comb out her silken locks.

"So it has finally worn off then?" Clary sinks into Isabelle's bed, throwing her head back against the windows and staring up into the sparkling black canopy, picking at the chipped polish on her fingernails. Isabelle is rifling through her closet in the corner, beams of morning sunshine pouring through the window and warming Clary's bare feet. She hadn't felt warm in so long. She'd succumbed to the darkness that accompanied anger, and though she'd always thought rage and fire would go hand in hand, it had caged her heart in ice, numbing her to every other emotion, every other feeling.

"I'm not mad anymore," she says quietly, choosing her words carefully as Izzy shimmies into her gear, undoubtedly having training with Jace today. Isabelle and Clary are in the pre-procreation stage, and since Isabelle is a Shadowhunter—not a secret one, like Clary—her days must be spent becoming a warrior, building strong skills to breed strong soldiers. "But I don't know if I can forgive him. I don't know if I _want_ to forgive him."

Isabelle settles gracefully beside her, her hands folded across her taut stomach as she stares into her winking canopy. The sparkles catch and refract the light, shining like a million stars in the galaxy, like the view out Jace's bird. _Stop it, Clarissa_. "Nobody accused marriage of being easy." Clary gnaws on her lip, blinking back against the memory of Kaelie, naked and sprawled on top of him. "Come on, Clary. Have you been completely honest with him?"

Clary's glare cuts to her friend. "I certainly have not been unfaithful to him, Iz. That's grounds to strip my title!" Isabelle sighs, and Clary takes a deep but hesitant breath, pressing the heel of her hand against her forehead. "Maybe the magic isn't all gone." Isabelle rolls her eyes as if to say, _ya think?_ "I guess I never told him about my relationship with Sebastian. It didn't seem relevant, but it's also not threatening to ruin our marriage." The pair sits up as Izzy's alarm shouts at her from the bedstand. A hand falls onto the redhead's shoulder, dark eyes filled with sympathy.

"Honesty—that will help you two get past this." She rises from the bed then, swiftly weaving her hair into a thick rope down her back and reaching out a hand to help the princess up. "Do you want to make an appearance at the training room with me?" Clary shakes her head quickly, looking at her toes.

"I…I'm not ready." She can see Isabelle's shadow nodding but doesn't look up. "Besides, I have more people to apologize to." She squeals in surprise when Isabelle smacks her butt.

"Get going, missy! You've been angry for so long that we have week's worth of gossip to catch up on." Clary rolls her eyes, but a smile plays at her lips. When she shoves through the door, there's several guards there, watching her with careful eyes. Security had been increased since the princess had proved she was a loose wire, stopping the general public from being privy to her stubborn and somewhat stuck-up outbursts. "Alaric," she addresses the guard she knows, with kindly gray eyes and cowlicked silver hair to match. "Would you please escort me to my father?" Her calm demeanor puzzles these men, as all they've received from her lately was grumbled annoyance. He nods curtly, reaching his arm out to here. She promptly loops hers through his. "I must apologize to you and your men, Alaric. I've been a bit…out of sorts lately, and I've been taking it out on people who do not deserve it."

"It's quite alright, Princess Clarissa. We are soldiers, and if we were to let words hurt us, we'd be dead." Clary laughs. The way he says it is not somber but rather in a joking tone. Her guards have always been easy to talk to, melting into the shadows respectfully when she prefers to be alone, listening to her babble incessantly about her worries, filling the silence with jokes. Most of all, though, these men that have been assigned to her since birth have kept her secrets, even the ones her father is unaware of, namely her whirlwind romance with the military's second in command. She's always been grateful for their discression and their friendship, even if they had no choice in the second one. "Here we are, Princess," he addresses her properly. There's no playful undertones in the name, not the way Jace says it, causing her insides to turn to mush.

"Thank you," she says genuinely as she reaches out to rap on the heavy oak door. Alaric nods as he backs into an alcove, keeping a safe distance between them while still watching for any danger.

"Clary," her father breathes as he opens the door, stepping back so she can breeze by him. Her throat tightens as she takes in his disheveled appearance. His bluegray eyes are bloodshot, dark purple bags hanging like bruises beneath them. His glasses are slightly askew and his sandy hair could use a good washing. She'd done that to him. She'd told the man that's given her everything she could ever need—love, a home, a family—that he's not her father.

"Dad," she starts after they'd booth seated themselves on opposite sides of his desk. She catches the subtle hopeful lift in his eyebrows. "I'm so, incredibly sorry. I said horrible, _horrible_ things to you." He waves his hand dismissively.

"It's true that I haven't been the best father lately, what with this war and Valentine's prophecy—" He cuts himself off.

"I know about the prophecy, Dad. I snuck into the void and forced Hodge to tell me about it."

Lucian nodded solemnly. "I figured as much when we found that bottle of grape juice in his cell."

"I told him it was poison." Luke smiles, the corners of his eyes crinkling gently, a face that filled all her best memories. "I just…I need to know if its true. Am I the prophetical enemy?"

Luke scrubs his hand down his face. "Honestly, I have no idea who the prophecy is about. I always thought that you would be safe if the world believed you to be human."

"Jace knows I'm a Shadowhunter, and Simon, too," she admits, but Luke just nods. He is not angered by this. "Maybe if the world knew, we could lay a trap, we could…"

"Everything I've done in this life has been to protect you, Clarissa. I can't and won't use you as bait."

"Is that why you married me to Jace?" she finds herself asking in a small voice.

"I knew he could protect you. That boy is fierce when it comes to the people he cares for."

"How did you know he would care for me?" Luke laughs a fatherly laugh, a twinkle forming in his eye.

"Ever since that night you danced with him, I knew you could be something to him. And I also knew that he would be something to you." She casts her gaze downward. All this time Clary had allowed him to believe she was still revolting against the marriage. "What is it, Clary?"

"There was…an indiscretion." Luke's eyes widen in shock and…disappointment?

"Clary, I—"

"It wasn't his fault. Some illegal magic was used and…we'll get past it."

"Still, Clary. You shouldn't have to hurt like that." She just shrugs, moving her gaze to where she's wringing her hands in her lap. She looks at the clock then, realizing it had been almost two and a half hours since she'd left Izzy's room.

"I have to go. I have plans with Isabelle. Let's have dinner soon."

X.O.X.O.X

Jace isn't home when Clary returns from her dinner, but she doesn't hole up in her room as she has been. She perches carefully on the center of her sofa. Jace's books are spread out on the table, spilling onto the floor. An unwashed plate with an apple core sits on top of one, browning from exposure to air. Three empty bottles of Jace Daniels lay on their side in front of the couch, a fourth one on the side table well on its way to join them. The room wreaks, every inch of it rumpled. This mess is so unlike Jace, who's cleanliness is transferred to everything he touches. That man can even make dirt and grime sparkle.

The door opens, and she has to stiffen her neck to not whirl around and greet him. She counts her heartbeats, having to remind herself to breathe to prevent from suffocating. There's a stumble, a heavy noise as he drops his weapons, another two thunks as he removes his boots. His usual silent lithe is replaced with heavy shuffling. Only when she hears him stop in his tracks does she turn. He's frozen in the center of their kitchen, one hand raised to open the fridge. If their living room was disheveled, Jace is a mess. His hair, usually sexily tousled, is completely unkempt, sticking up in random places from him yanking on it. His eyes are bloodshot, weighted down by heavy purple bags growing beneath. His clothes are wrinkled, his posture slack. Every part of him that screamed warrior now cries for help.

He doesn't speak, just stands, like a statue of beautiful chaos. She doesn't want him to, either, because she knows he'd just apologize. She doesn't care to hear his apologies, as sincere as they might be. She wants _answers_. So she lifts herself from the couch, straightening the pleats in her dress as she folds her hands delicately in front of her. She's gotten used to drifting like a ghost, aimlessly down corridors, hoping to go unseen. It surprises her when Jace's brows furrow at the tentative way she walks, ensuring each placement of her foot is silent, that her skirts do not swish, that no noise can draw attention. "Hi," she says when she nears, cringing at the hoarseness of her own voice. His proximity draws gooseflesh on her skin, remembering the way he touched her, held her, _kissed_ her. Her body still responds the way it used to, though her heart feels encased in steel, her brain on high alert.

"Hi," his voice is soft, nervous. She's never seen this expression on Jace's face, one of raw, uncamouflaged agony. He's not trying to hide his shame from her as he drops his hand from the fridge, stuffing both fists deeply into his pockets. He's trying to catch her eye, but she refuses, instead looking over her shoulder at the silver magnets on the fridge. "Clary, I—"

"How long?" she asks, her voice so quiet she's not even sure he hears. She gnaws on her lip hard enough to draw blood. She will not cry in front of him. She will not show how much this hurts.

"Just once." He doesn't try to justify it, spin it around to be a positive. His words are filled with pure self-loathing. She can feel it radiating from him, see it in the way he avoids his reflection. In the windows, in the toaster, in her eyes. She nods once, a solemn bob of her head.

"Were you unhappy." She can't speak with the proper inflection, her questions coming out as flat, dead statements. She knows they were under Kaelie's influence, but she _has_ to know what was going through his mind as he made love to another woman.

"Of course not, Clary. I lo—" She puts her hand up, cutting him off rather abruptly. She doesn't want to hear him say those words. Not now. Maybe not ever. She wants to tell him that trash should be taken out, not brought home and fucked. She wants to shout at him to get out, to punch his chest until her body is numb. But she just stands there, tasting rust and salt from the cut on her lip.

"I don't know if I can do this," she whispers. Her ring winks at her from a chain around his neck, and she feels like she's drowning. He calls out to her as she sprints by him, but it falls on deaf ears. She outruns the guards, weaving and turning until she finds herself in the old hangar. The Giant Turtle sits stationary, awaiting her just as she'd planned. Jace hadn't exactly taught her how to operate it, but she'd watched him enough to know how to start the engine, how to urge it forward, how to turn it.

She steers it down the same path she'd cut earlier, finding herself at the edge of the shoreline where he'd first kissed her, their cottage sitting vacant in the distance. A place of joy and hope now one of pure isolation. She doesn't use the stairs to get down, leaping and rolling to a standing position as she sprints to the pile in the sand. She wonders if Jace followed her after she'd left or if he'd gone to his room, standing in confusion at the emptiness.

She douses his mattress and blankets in gasoline. The smell is satisfying, and she stands back, flicking a lit match onto the pile. It ignites in a brilliant orange display, black smoke blending into the night sky. Fat, white snowflakes fall aimlessly to the ground as she watches Jace's bed burn, wishing only that Kaelie would trip into the fire.

She doesn't feel how cold it's getting, standing so close to her makeshift bonfire. It's not until the last of it goes out that she realizes the snow is up to her ankles, her teeth chattering, skin turning pink. The ashes give her no gratification as she climbs into the Turtle. The pile is a tangible representation of her relationship with Jace, charred beyond repair.

"Shit," Clary mutters as the Turtle's engine sputters but won't turn over. She can see her breath in the air, expelling in thick, white puffs. Steeling her feelings, she makes her way to the cabin, thankful there's dry wood to start a fire in the stove. She's never been here without Jace, and without his unwavering protectiveness, she feels utterly terrified. Idrisians live underground solely because the winters are treacherous. Not only are feral and vicious animals roaming the surface, starving and willing to eat anything in sight, but also the weather is unpredictable, feet of snow falling in hours, wind tearing trees out at their roots.

She wraps herself in a dusty quilt. It must be well into the night, as the moon has almost reached its crest. Nobody knows she's out here, shivering in uninsulated walls. There's not a lot of food, just a few boxes of crackers and cans of soup. Maybe she shouldn't have been so hellbent on destroying any evidence that Kaelie had been in her apartment. Maybe Kaelie was christening another new bed with Jace. Anger resonates through her at that thought, except she's certain this belongs to her. It's not murderous, just irritated.

"Clary, what the fuck are you doing out here!" Jace cries, bursting through the door and shaking an inch of snow from his hair. His cheeks are red, the tip of his noise coated in a fine layer of ice that he brushes aside. "You're going to get yourself killed!"

"I burned your mattress," she tells him casually, turning her attention back to the flickering flame.

"I am aware of that," he says with a laugh, now dusting snow from his pants. "Look, I got the Turtle started. Let's get out of here." She crosses arms firmly across her chest, pressing her lips into a thin line.

"I don't want to go anywhere with you."

"Fine, you take the Turtle. I'll walk back." Clary's eyes widen.

"Did you _walk_ all the way here?" He nods. "In a snowstorm?" Another nod. "Why?"

Jace sighs. "I saw you leave. And when you didn't come back, I got worried."

"What took you so long?" she grumbles, pulling the blanket taut across her shoulders.

Jace laughs once. "I had to get a new bed." She rolls her eyes, yawning in exhaustion.

"Let's go. You're driving." She pushes past him and into the heavy snowfall, not looking back to see if he follows.

X.O.X.O.X

Jace hears his bedroom door creak open, pale moonlight cutting holes in the darkness as he straightens up, fingers twitching toward the blade on his nightstand. Clary stands in a pool of silver light, wringing her hands in the archway of their adjoining door. Her cheeks are streaked with tears, her eyes swollen and red. She's wearing one of his t-shirts, an old Red Nova jersey from when he'd watched them play in the sports' sector of Idris. He doesn't address her, fearing that talking would break the silent spell that brought her into his room. Her ring lies against his chest, burning a hole as her eyes land on it.

Her feet make slow progress toward his bed, her body visibly quivering as his eyes adjust to the darkness. He wants to reach for her, to tuck her face in the crook of his neck and stroke her hair until all her troubles disperse. She stops when she reaches the foot of his bed, sniffling softly as he grips his witchlight, blue seeping through the spaces between his fingers, spaces where hers belong. The clock tells him it's one in the morning, but his mind is wide awake.

"July seventeenth," she whispers, her fingers tracing invisible patterns on his comforter as he struggles to understand her words. "They will feast at my mother's resting place today. What a morbid way to spend the day of her death." Her words are flat but heavy as the fall wholly on him. Guilt resonates through him like a bullet, ricocheting off every bone. She's been alone through this when he should have been there to wipe her tears, to hold her close. "I can't fight," she breathes. "Not today." Her breaths are shaky as the fall with her teardrops, dampening his blankets though he can't find it in him to care.

"Please stay," he finds himself saying, the quilt falling from his waist as he stands, gripping her elbows gently as she stares at his chest, torn between suffering alone and suffering with someone who'd only mounted on her pain. "Please." He doesn't know if it's the way his voice breaks or the sincerity in it that has her rounding the bed with him, sliding beneath the warmed covers. He lets her put her cold feet against his warm skin without a fight. He can't fight anything with her anymore. He'd tear out his own heart if she asked him. Hell, that's what it feels like he's doing right now.

"Can we listen to the ocean?" She speaks uncertainly, as if she can't calculate his response. He grabs the remote, flipping through the simulated outdoor settings until he can hear the waves rolling into the shore. She doesn't thank him, but he can feel it in the way her body relaxes into him, his arms tentatively cradling her to his chest.

"Clary," he whispers, blinking slowly as a bout of exhaustion presses down on him. She hums lightly, her nose pressed against his sternum, her cheek pillowed in the crook of his arm. "Please don't leave me again." Her curls brush against his arms as she tilts her head upward. Her eyes still shimmer with tears, though he's not sure these are for her mother.

"I know Kaelie used magic on you, Jace. I know that and I understand—but a childish part of me says that if you were truly _content_ , you could have fought it." She voices his thoughts exactly, and his heart stalls. She's looking for a response that he's not sure he can give. Does his inability to fight her succubus charm mean he can't give Clary the love she deserves? There's no straight answer. Does he selfishly want it to be untrue? Hell yes.

"I will never voluntarily leave you. Only death can tear me from you, my beautiful princess, my ferocious warrior—"

"Please, stop." He's caused more tears in the past few days than he'd ever seen her cry. Even in the midst of battle with tattered clothes and torn skin, her expression is stone. "Just…hold me."

Her words sting but the invitation leaves him hopeful as he tightens her in his embrace, drawing shapes onto her back. He listens to her mumble incoherently as the depths of sleep consume her. He fights the sweet embrace of unconsciousness, though, relishing in these few hours with her, knowing when she wakes she might return to ignoring his existence.

He toys with his curls, murmuring sweet nothings into her ear, his breath catching when she pulls him closer. Her feet are tucked between his calves, her fingers tangled into the curls at the nape of his neck. He wants to kiss her parted lips, to share the even breaths falling from them.

The moon is still high in the sky when she stirs again, her green eyes flickering open with a yawn as she detangles herself from him. He lifts his head from the pillow, awed by her silhouette in the pale moonlight. She's crying again. Even with her head turned away from him, he can feel the hiccups in her chest, hear the softness of her anguish. He drags her gently back to him, using his thumbs to wipe away her tears the way he should have done before. "Hey, shhh," he coos, using his free hand to massage her scalp. His back is pressed against the headboard, letting her use his stomach as a pillow.

"I…hate…Kaelie," she says between hiccups, her sobs growing louder with the passing second. Jace smooths a hand up and down her back.

"Me, too."

"Isabelle said she gave me a potion, too." Jace's eyes knit together, wondering why his sister would not have told him this. She's a bit more composed as Jace runs his hands through her curls again. "One that would make me angry, make me resent you. And what's scary is how easily I gave into it." She rolls so that she's now facing him, pillowing her cheek in her hand.

"Are you saying…?"

"The anger felt so _real_ , but I knew it wasn't mine. It was like I was riding passenger as I spat all those hateful things, to you…to Luke…" she trails off, ending her sentence with another hiccup.

"I may not have been in control," he tells her, trying to breathe shallowly enough that it doesn't jar her head, "but I'm still so, so sorry."

"How can I be mad at you when you fought yours so much faster than I did? When you saw through the lies she'd woven to return to me? When I _attacked_ you…" she shakes her head, startling herself to silence at the memory of the cuts he'd sustained on their last day of training.

"That was kind of fun for me," he says, unable to contain the smirk pulling at his cheek. She laughs once, but there's not much humor in it.

She swipes her nose on the sleeve of his jersey, shifting so she's pressed against his entire side, her head falling onto his shoulder. "You rescued me from the pits of my own mind." He smiles softly, twisting one of her curls around his index finger.

"Does this mean we're done with the third-degree?" She sobs unexpectedly, and Jace lifts her chin to meet his eyes. "Hey, I know that wasn't you. You're strong-willed and independent, but you've never been mean." She nods, burrowing into his embrace as he pulls the blankets back over them, pressing a warm kiss to her shoulder. "Please don't leave me," he tries again.

"Hold on to me," she whispers almost silently, but he shifts her closer, burying his nose in her curls as he finally allows sleep to overcome him.

* * *

 _Reviews get you more Clace! ;)_

All My Love

~BallinBlonde21


	15. Remember Me

_Addressing some questions:::Clary is now free of the magic...chapter 13 she had momentary freedom from being far from Kaelie, but now it's warn off for reasons you'll discover in the future...Clace is coming...very very very soon...we've spent enough time building, but if you know me, I like to wrench 'em apart a few times ;)_

 _ANYWAY ENJOY!_

 _The Shadow Wars_

 _Chapter 15: Remember Me_

 _Songs:_

 _Part 1: Photograph - Ed Sheeran_

 _Part 2: Please - Rhye_

 _Part 3: White Suburban - Skylar Grey_

* * *

The corner of the photograph in his left pocket pokes at his leg, reminding him of the object in his right one. His hand fiddles nervously with it, wrapping and unwrapping it around his fingertips idly as his mind ticks away the seconds on the clock, counting down to the moment his Eighteens will be dismissed into different classes. "Good attack, Blackthorn," he calls to the dark-haired boy sparring with a much larger opponent, effectively disarming him and pressing him against the mat. "Nightshade, do _not_ expect your height to be an advantage."

 _Sixty-three seconds_.

He forces his eyes to scan the fighting students, critiquing forms and attacks until he feels the mood shift, signaling the end of training. "Tomorrow, we leave for battle!" he announces as his students straighten their spines beneath his words. "Tomorrow, you will no longer be boys. You will be men." Cheers erupt through the room as they funnel out the doorways, sheathing blades and knives as they go, the excitement palpable.

He can remember those days, eagerly awaiting to join the fight for liberation, to do _something_ to aid his planet. He'd lain awake the night before his first battle, staring at the slats of the bunk above him, running attacks through his mind, escaping every scenario his mind would shout at him. He'd felt as if the scars and bruises finally amounted to something greater than himself, that he could finally avenge his parents instead of practicing.

And now it's his least favorite part.

Jace Herondale loves the fight. He loves the adrenalin, the blood pounding through his ears in time with his heartbeat as he draws his blade. He loves the sound of his sword cutting through the frosty air of Alicante, the sickening but satisfying disappearance of demon ichor. He enjoys the wounds, the fear, and the power alike.

But he does not enjoy unleashing the terrors of war upon these young and innocent souls.

He lost his rose-colored glasses long before his first Mark. His world has never been pure, never happy. He knows of suffering and heartbreak, so his immanent death never haunted him. These students, though, know of no such things. They know of the solid fortress that is Idris. They have heat to drive out the winters, guards to scare away the enemies, and mothers to come home to. Soon, nightmares will replace dreams; tanned fingertips will turn blue with frostbite; and that girl who blew him off will become the nicest memory he has. Never have they frozen. Never have they bled at the hands of a stranger. Never have they known the true evil in this universe.

He licks his dried lips, strapping his own sword across his back as he pulls himself into consciousness. He can't feel guilt for what must be done, so instead, he hurries through the halls, keeping his golden eyes trained on the space before him in an attempt to avoid any eye contact. He ultimately fails as warlock Magnus Bane approaches him. His electric blue pants and sparkling jacket do wonders to draw attention to him, making Jace curse the strict, black attire Shadowhunters must wear because it only makes Magnus stick out more.

"General," the warlock greets in that smooth but disinterested way of his. Jace nods his greeting, fighting off a sigh as the man insists to keep pace with him. He must admit, it is quite a feat for this man to achieve such lengthy strides in those tight pants. "Shall I prepare cures to demon poisoning for the upcoming battles?"

It's a strange question, since Magnus never deals directly with Jace. Instead of asking where he received orders to report to Jace, the blond merely nods. "We are expecting equal numbers of demons and Downworlders to meet us at the frontlines." He can see in his peripherals the way the warlock's peculiar cat eyes widen fractionally at the mention of his people. "We try to save as many as we can, Magnus," he says lowly, refusing to look at the man in his attempts to comfort him. He can't have their best warlock jumping ship. "Some—Downworlders and Shadowhunter deserters alike—are too ensnared in the Circle's trap that they don't see Valentine is forcing them to commit suicide." The warlock doesn't reply as they are brought up short.

"Alec." His brother's ice blue eyes have a strange light in them as they flash from Magnus to Jace. "Magnus and I were just discussing strategies for preventing and curing poisoning." He steps aside so that Magnus and Alec are face-to-face. "I have an important engagement at the moment, but maybe you'd care to give him your opinion." He raises his eyebrows, but doesn't wait for an answer as he presses forward.

He doesn't stop until his door stands before him, a symbolic barrier of what is about to come. There is no going back from this, no forgetting, no room for regret. He pushes forward, choosing for once to ignore the voice in his head telling him to patch the hole in his rough exterior.

He drops his weapons belt in the doorway, the noise causing her to look up from the sketchpad propped in her lap. His breath catches at the sight of her, the way it always does. There's a smile in those green eyes as she lifts herself from the sofa, her unruly curls fanned out like a lion's mane around her. She wears one of his black t-shirts, falling loosely around her frame and stopping mid-thigh. He much prefers this Clary—the one with a graphite smudge on her right cheek, the one without the rigid posture of corsets and stiff dresses, unbound by necessity to be proper.

"How are you?" she asks—an innocent question holding so much weight for him.

"Nervous," he answers honestly, his eyes tracking her movements as she pours herself a glass of water. Before the question on her lips has time to form into words, he takes up her hand, resting his other on the curve of her hip. The smile in her eyes ignites into a full-blown grin as he dips and sways her around the kitchen, the tiled floor cold beneath his feet as he kicks his boots off and spins her again and again.

"How did we get so lucky?" he wonders aloud, watching her eyes slip shut as her head falls against his chest.

"It's fate," she whispers, her hands light on his shoulders as he smooths his hand across the small of her back, pulling her body flush against his.

"I don't believe in fate," he tells her. "I don't believe in a higher order controlling every action…every outcome of this life we live. I don't believe in silly concepts like love at first sight, and I certainly don't believe in soulmates. They are merely words for the uneducated to describe phenomina they have no real explanation for." They've stopped dancing, and she's eyeing him wearily as he speaks, certainly wondering what downward path he's fallen onto. "But I know that we come from stardust. That we are just a recycled piece of the Cosmos from long ago." He rests his hand over hers, running the pad of his thumb across her knuckles. "I do believe that these so-called _soulmates_ are particles that were together in existence long ago." He sighs, unpleased with his words as he pulls a golden chain from his pocket. "We are atomically connected, Clary. I can't deny that each one of my cells calls out to yours, that the mere idea of separation from you sends an ancient agony ripping through my very being, nearly paralyzing me."

He drops the pendent into her upturned palm, watching the diamonds cach the low light and scatter it like white freckles against her skin. "You're my star, Clary." He bites his tongue then, watching her turn the necklace over in her fingers.

She kisses him, long and desperate has her fingers find home in his hair and his pull her hips closer. They don't express their fears for the morning. They don't say the three words both of them are thinking. They just kiss and dance until the artificial sun peaks through the window.

And when Jace laces his boots, her fingers clasp the star around her neck, her eyes shimmering like the midnight sky. Yet she doesn't let the tears fall until the door is closed behind him and his footfalls have faded into the distance.

X.O.X.O.X

The apartment is surprisingly lonely without Jace. There is no one to rouse her for early morning training, no one to throw food at as they make unwarranted jokes about her height and unruly hair. Maia has taken to appearing in her bedroom at six o'clock each morning, the sound of her scribbling away at her planner enough to wake her up. She misses Jace softly shaking her arm. She misses the way he smells. She misses that crooked smile she finally pulled out from the deepest part of him.

"Clarissa," her father snaps as she realizes she's been pushing the scrambled eggs around on her plate for far too long. She really hates eggs. Her father should know this. Jace has come to know this.

"Yes, father?" she asks innocently, tugging at the seam of the purple dress she's laced up in. She's seated as far from him as humanly possible, both at the heads of the dining table. She hopes it disguises the sadness in her features, the dark circles beneath her eyes. The last thing she wants is for Luke to think that he's done something right by arranging her marriage.

"I'd like for you to attend today's festivities with me." The way he says it doesn't leave much room for a choice, so she merely nods, still moving her food with her fork. Today is Founder's Day, the Idrisian holiday celebrating the day they landed in Idris. For her father, it serves as another strategic move—a morale booster, a connection builder, a way to mingle with the royalty. "Splended. Maia!" her father calls attention to the woman hovering in the corner of the room.

Clary saw her snap to attention, blushing violently as their chef, Jordan, slips back into the kitchen. Clary smirks. _Remember that next time you try to force me into high heels._ "Please prepare Clary a dress for the celebration tonight." Maia nods a bit too enthusiastically and disappears from the room, leaving Clary with the sound of silverware scraping against china. "How are you getting along without Jace?" he asks without looking up from his meal. Without the king even glancing upward at her, she's able to slouch a bit, allowing a disconcerted frown to form.

"I'm _fine_ , Dad. I hardly need a man to always hover around me." Luke chuckles, dropping from his stiff posture. Now it's just her and her dad, the one who used to lift her onto his shoulders to look over the endless ships in the hangar, the one who sang her to sleep when demons invaded her memories.

"Trust me, I know," he responds, shoving his toast at her. She gratefully accepts, her stomach still growling with hunger. "I just hoped that maybe you'd grown fond of him."

"Well, I don't exactly hate him anymore," she allows, nibbling at the edge of her toast.

"I see you haven't completed the ritual," he tells her, nodding his head at the unmarred creamy skin of her chest.

"I can hardly run around marked with runes when the population doesn't know I'm a Shadowhunter," she bites out, a bit more harshly than she'd expected. Lucian shifts uncomfortably in his seat, his soft eyes now glowing.

"Clary, I…there's something you need to know." She sets the food down, the uncomfortable look in his eye telling her exactly where this is going. His chest swells, his eyes blinking rapidly against tears she'd never see fall. "It won't be so hard for everyone to believe you to be a Shadowhunter. Your mother wore thinly veiled marks." He lifts the sleeve of his suit to show her an arm full of scars, one she's seen many times. They used to just look like random lines, swirling across his skin like white wind. Now, though, she can see they are runes. "Valentine stripped me of mine."

She can't help it when her hand flutters to her throat. She's always thought Luke to be a gentle man, never a warrior. But she can see it there in his eyes, the fierce determination, the complete and utter despair at having lost his abilities. "This war is a lot closer to home than you realize." She watches, open-mouthed as he unbuttons the top three buttons of his shirt and pulls it aside, revealing a parabatai rune, one she knows well from Jace's chest. "Valentine and I were parabatai. We were basically brothers." He ends it there, redoing his shirt and smoothing his lapels like nothing had ever happened. She's lost her appetite, but he finishes his plate, not looking up at her various noises.

When he's finally done, he glances up at her over the lenses of his glasses. She drinks slowly from her glass of orange juice, wetting her dry throat as he speaks. "Have you consummated the marriage yet?"

She chokes. "What?!"

Luke laughs, a mischievous sparkle in his eye. "I'm kidding." He turns his head slightly away, mumbling to himself. "Of course you have."

"Father!"

"What?" he whines. "You're married now. Your destiny is to continue the Garroway legacy."

"I'd rather let Maia brush my hair than have this conversation with you," she attemtps to hiss, but the blush creeping up her neck softens the blow.

"Fantasitc! You can go prepare for the day then. The air parade starts at noon." She glowers at his cheerful tone, not giving him the satisfaction of a total victory as she scrapes her chair loudly across the floor, her shoes echoing in the silence as she leaves the room.

X.O.X.O.X

The green dress is light, more like pistachio pudding than the emerald jewels in her eyes. It makes her skin appear paler than it actually is, sickly almost as she strides beside the strong presence of the Idrisian king. The pendant Jace had given to her rests between her breasts, the cool metal a comfort against her flushing skin. She swears she can almost feel it pulsating, like a heartbeat. Sometimes it's slow and steady, and she can picture Jace slumbering, his golden lashes brushing his cheeks as his scarred hands cross over his chest. Sometimes its thrumming, pounding even, kick starting her own heart as if she were running a marathon. For now, it is still, dulled by the excited thrum of the crowd as they flood the courtyard.

The courtyard is a metal dome, the closest to ground level one can get aside from the hangar. It's filled with trees and foliage and benches to sit at. A shimmering golden fountain resides in the middle, Jonathon Shadowhunter clutching the Mortal Cup as water runs over the edge and into the coin-filled pool. She always thought the throwing pennies for wishes was ridiculous. Raziel has no need for money or mortal possessions. Surely he wouldn't grant a wish based solely on how much one is willing to pay him. But as she watches giddy children flick copper and silver circles into the rippling waters, she realizes it's not that the expect their wishes to be granted. They don't expect lightning to strike down their enemies or rainbows to heal their sick. In exchange for their sacrifice, they are given a silver of hope and the resounding assurance that they've done everything in their power to right their wrongs. People are not stupid. They are hopeful.

Her father pulls her to a stop at the edge of the royal balcony, allowing her to look over the people as they mill about. Vendors sell their wares on the left, people purchasing woven cloaks and sparklers and snacks on sticks. Music from a band on the right penetrates the voices, turning the thousands of conversations into a strange symphony. Seas of green move in synchronization as the trumpets blare for their beloved king. "Let Founders Day begin!" he bellows, spreading his arms wide as the chrome skies open up to reveal the actual blue sky of day. Only a thin sheen of glass separates her from the world above.

She wishes the warm sun could caress her through the barrier, warm her the way it had on the shores of the lake that day. She wishes the wind could whisper through her hair, that these woven braids would fall away and Jace could push rogue curls behind her ear. Cheers roar over the sounds of engines as planes pass by overhead, pulling various colored banners in their wake. The band starts up again, using the noises to build on their melody.

Clary's always liked Founder's Day. It always was her time to see the sky, to gaze upon the heavens and feel close to her mother again. She liked the sounds and the electric buzz it sent through her skins. But this year, it feels empty. It's artificial compared to the joy of soaring through the skies, of breathing the thick and pungent scent of moss in salty air. "At least pretend to be having fun," Maia prods as she positions herself behind Clary, pressing a palm to the small of her back to straighten the princess out of her slouch. Clary hadn't realized her face had settled into a scowl.

She doesn't have time to readjust it because suddenly there's a cry of terror. Clary's head snaps in the direction before turning upward to see a fighter jet spiraling toward the dome. Clary's paralyzed as the crowds scatter, the red banner streaming behind the plane like blood as it crashes into the wall.

And suddenly it's raining. Shimmering shards of glass pour down from above, slicing a lacework of wounds into her skin. An arm reaches and grabs her from behind, her father all but lifting her as they flee the balcony, guards funneling behind them as they dash through the hysteria.

Fire ripples through the greenery, charring the only life in their little bunker to black ashes as it makes its way to the fountain. Luke's grip on her forearm is bruising as she struggles to keep pace, her curls whipping her cheeks as she fights for glances backward. People run in all directions—women clutching children, men brandishing weapons, and babies crying. "Breech!" a man with shoulder-length blond hair yells, his blue eyes glowing in the light of his seraph blade.

"Take Clary," Luke orders his guards, pushing her forward as his momentum stops. His hand grips a sword pulled from his belt, his steps carrying him farther away as he throws himself into the fight. Tears sting her eyes as she stumbles over her skirts, hands at her elbows holding her on her feet.

She regrets ever thinking that her father sat at the sidelines, watching other people die for his fight. All the times she's yelled at him, ridiculed his choices, flash through her mind. She's jarred as they take a sharp corner into the hangar. It's devoid of people, but full of birds, lined in neat rows, ready for battle. Jace's is gone, with him at the battlefront.

"I will not leave my people," she tells the guard with flickering dark eyes as he tries to usher her on the plane. "Not in their time of need." Her heart hammers in her throat, synced with the necklace against her chest as the guard narrows his gaze.

"Orders are to escort you to safety." Clary widens her stance.

"I do not want to be safe." Adrenalin pumps through her veins, and only does her breath hitch in fear as the guards begin to discard their green cloaks, drawing weapons from their belts.

"You _will_ come with us, Princess." A feral grin stretches across his face as he advances on her, her skirts hindering her backward steps. Before they can circle her, she takes off running, retracing the path to where she'd last seen her father.

Her throat is too dry for her to holler, the words lodged in her lungs as she shucks off her shoes and lifts her dress to retrieve the dagger sheathed against her thigh. Throngs of people flood at her, running away from the fray she desires to leap into. She mutters quick apologies to those she bumps along the way until she's breaking through the opening, landing herself on the royal balcony with nowhere to run.

Her grip tightens on her weapon, her eyes focused as the men impersonating her guards appear in the doorway, several now splattered with blood. "Are you going to fight us, little girl?" he sneers, but as he approaches, she drives her knife into his ribs, watching his next words die with him. She doesn't think about it as she grabs his seraph blade, buzzing with power in her hands as three more make their way past their fallen comrade.

She remembers Jace's lessons. Parry, attack, attack—she's small, and therefore at a disadvantage if she's on defense. She must jab quickly, unexpectedly. She disarms one, neatly cutting his throat as a blade slices up her side. Pain hits her in waves as she backs away, coated in her own blood. "Who are you?" She cries out as her back hits the banister, but it is drowned out by the roaring in her ears as she tips over the edge.

* * *

 _Muahahahahhaahahhahahaahahahahahahahahaha_

 _Reviews get the next update faster_

 _All My Love_

 _~BallinBlonde21_


	16. I'm No Superman

_Update because I'm in a tornado warning and the sky is literally black and it's only 8 pm (sunset's at like 9:30 lately) Please Enjoyyyyyy :)_

* * *

 _The Shadow Wars_

 _Chapter 16: I'm No Superman_

 _Songs:_

 _Part 1: Angels Fall - Breaking Benjamin_

 _Part 2: This Is My War - Five Finger Death Punch_

 _Part 3: Drown - Bring Me The Horizon_

 _Part 4: St. Christopher (On My Way) - Michael Logen_

* * *

Her entire body aches, protesting even the motion of opening her eyes as she glances groggily into her surroundings. Metal burns around her wrists, locked with runes as she jangles the links of chain tethering her to the damp, stone walls. Through the dim light, she can make out distinct figures of other prisoners, glaring at her with glowing eyes. Downworlders, she recognizes, as the vampire bares his fangs, his shirtless chest concave with lack of nutrition. A lycanthrope writhes on the floor, his silver binds stopping him mid transition. A fairie's limp wings flit uselessly, nailed to a wooden cross to prevent her flying escape. This is a torture chamber, wet with blood and anguish. "Where am I?" she mutters, bringing a palm up to her head, clanking chains only worsening the sharp pain in her skull.

Nobody responds to her, too entrapped in their own hells to notice the blood seeping from her mapping of wounds. Her leg is bent at an odd angle, bound with two strips of cloth. Her whole body screams for reprieve, for escape. Her muscles tense when heavy bootsteps approach the end of the walk of horrors. Dark, seductive eyes trail her misshapen and destroyed body, appraising with disdain. With hair so blond it's almost white, she finally places this villain, striking fear into her weakly beating heart. "Valentine Morgenstern."

"Sweet, sweet, Clarissa," he croons, pacing back and forth before her. His footfalls echo like drops of water, his combat boots clacking against the distorted and weathered stones. "So young, so naïve." He presses his forefinger and thumb against his chin in faux contemplation, scrutinizing her chained in the cell. Refusing to show weakness, she rolls her neck to look upward at him, the shackles around her wrists clanking against the damp floor. She can feel blood dripping from her head down her back, warm against her chilled flesh.

"Coming from the man who has become Lucifer's bitch," she spits, smirking to herself despite the pain. Her short time with Jace has taught her something about comebacks, that's for sure. The bones in her cheek crack as the heel of his hand connects with them, sending a spray of crimson across the wall.

"I _am_ Lucifer," he growls, a menacing fire flickering in his hellish eyes. "Tell me, Clarissa, do you know what Morgenstern means?" She bites back her snide remark as he continues. "It originates from an ancient tongue, spoken on Earth long before the Shadowhunter's transition to the stars. German, I believe," he muses absentmindedly, resuming his pacing before her. "It roughly translates to 'morning star.'" Her brows furrow, and Valentine capitalizes on the opportunity to mock her ignorance. " _Lucifer_ —Latin in origin—also translates to 'morning star.'" A wicked grin cracks his deathly pallor, his face looming close through the bars. "See, I am the devil, and the devil is me. I am stronger than the angels of heaven, unrestricted by their silly morals. I am all powerful. I am _god_." The ominous tone to his words sends a shiver down her sore spine. "And you, Princess. Do you know who you are? Where you come from?"

She sets her jaw, nostrils flaring as blood slips from her nose to her lip. It soaks into her teeth as she speaks. "I come from Idris. I am heir to their throne." He makes a tsking noise with his tongue, a sickening sound that sends her heart to her throat and calls pain to her wounds. His dark eyes trail her body, leaving her feeling exposed in a flimsy cotton gown, clinging to her small frame with sweat and blood. She's beginning to feel less like a measly prisoner, and more like prey, chained in the lion's den as he stalks nearer and nearer. He's merely toying with her before lashing out for the final kill.

"I'd appreciate your honesty, Clarissa. There are no secrets between us." His breath fans across her face, hot and wet. She jerks her chin away.

Valentine radiates power and darkness, an aurora of sorts, stretching out over everything he touches. She does not want to succumb to that power. She does not want to be one of his mindless minions.

His pale hair is in stark contrast to his black gear and soulless eyes as he rears back once more, landing his fist against her jaw this time.

She spits the blood at his feet. Female lions are the huntresses of the savannahs. Valentine cannot break her. "If we have no secrets, then why do I know nothing about this prophecy your goons speak of?" His eyes narrow, flickering toward the door where a guard stands at attention.

They fall back to the spot of blood she'd landed on his shoe, staring daggers into it as he finally speaks. "I suppose there is no harm in you knowing now," he chuckles darkly, his gaze trailing up the heavy chains holding her in place. "This power I possess—I was not born with it. My handsomeness and charisma—yes, but this unparalleled strength in battle did not overcome me until my mid-twenties. I cannot be beaten. I cannot fall before friend or foe. I am the ultimate leader." He has a strange accent, so unlike the others inhabiting this dimension. He speaks loudly, with pronounced _r_ 's and _t_ 's, whereas the Downworlders talk with fear dripping from every phrase and demons hiss like snakes. "But as the universe does, my power had to be balanced out. This prophecy, told to me by a trusted warlock, states that my dark power arrived at the creation of the counterbalancing light power."

"And you think that's me?" she asks incredulously. It isn't hard to see that Valentine easily overpowers her. She is completely at his mercy.

"I've said enough." He smooths his hands down his shirt, eyeing her with a newfound wonder. "You're turn."

She shakes her head. "As I've told you, I am Crown Princess Clarissa Garroway of Idris, daughter of King Lucian Garroway and the late Queen Jocelyn—" Valentine's ears perk up, a slow _ahh_ escaping his dried lips to effectively cut her off.

"Lucian is no father to you." Clary runs her tongue along her teeth, tasting rust. Valentine interprets her silence as an answer. "But you already knew that. _Interesting._ " There's a knock at the wooden door, echoing through the cavernous dungeon like a thunderstorm. " _Interesting,_ " Valentine mutters once more, swinging his cloak as he stalks toward the door, his white-blond hair the only visible part of him.

Two pairs of footsteps return moments later, hushed voices speaking hurriedly as they approach. A matching pair of eyes blink at her. "Clarissa, I'd like you to meet my son, Jonathon."

There's a wickedness in the son's smile that matches his father's a lack of life in the pits where his eyes should be. "Your brother."

She sputters for a response to that, but words fail her.

Instead, she finds herself gasping for air, like she's drowning slowly under the lies that she's built her life around, each one crumbling down on her to push her further into the ocean. "What do you want from me?" she finally manages, straining against her bindings.

"We are going to remove that light from you, sister," Jonathon replies, his voice monotonous, dead to any emotion. "And then, you are going to join us in the dark."

X.O.X.O.X

As the sights narrow on his target, Jace barks commands at his droid, piloting the squadron through enemy gunfire to take out the Circle's control center. The explosion reflects in his eyes as cheers ring out through his headset. "You did it, boss," Sebastian Verlac calls into the coms, radioing a go for landing on the mothership.

Jace pulls his helmet off, shaking out his curls as he sets it beside him, punching all the correct buttons to safely park his bird in the hangar. As soon as the hatch is opened, he's surrounded by hundreds of men, congratulating him on yet another successful mission. He nods his gratitude at them as he heads for his bunk, desperately in need of a shower and a cup of coffee.

"Hey, man," his brother greets as he rounds a corner with him, easily matching Jace's stride. His bow is strapped across his back, his blue eyes tired but excited. "That last maneuver was genius," he's gushing as they enter the mess hall. "Honestly, I can't believe you pulled it off. I was certain you were going to die."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence, brother," Jace replies sarcastically as he fills his mug. The bitter coffee warms his stomach and livens his step. He waits for Alec, who's carefully measuring spoonfuls of sugar into his cup.

"If you hadn't had that seasoned soldier on your right wing you definitely would have—"

The mug slips from Jace's fingertips as he grips the rune etched on his right side, the one linked to Clary's necklace. The brown liquid splashes over the pair's shoes, glass scattering across the cement floor. "What the—?" he hears Alec mutter, but Jace has already taken off running, his legs pumping with pure adrenalin.

There are a few footsteps sounding behind him, but he gives no explanation until he's pulling himself up into his bird, barking orders at Church. "The Princess," he tells Alec as his head appears below the closing hatch. "My _wife_ —she's in trouble." The rune on his side sends a stabbing sense of terror through him as Alec nods, signaling for the gates to be opened.

Jace takes to the air, igniting hyperspeed with coordinates locked on Idris. He arrives in record time, leaping from his ship before it's even landed. The king's already rushing toward him, aware of his arrival. "Valentine's got her," King Lucian tells him with a quaking voice, taking up Jace's hands in his shaking ones. "It's a lot to ask, General, but we know the location of his lair."

"Give me to coordinates." The king releases a long breath, shaking his head ever so slightly.

"That's the thing—it's in Lake Lyn." Jace's brow furrows, his mind whirling.

"But no Shadowhunter can enter Lake Lyn and survive."

Jace is aware of another presence before he even speaks. "I think I know how he's doing it," Magnus announces with a grave voice. "I've been monitoring the magic surrounding the areas of Circle activity, and Lake Lyn's is extremely high."

"Get to the point, warlock," Jace growls, his fingers curling into fists. Magnus looks unperturbed by the seething warrior.

"I think that the lake itself is a portal to the Underworld." Jace laughs rudely.

"That's ridiculous. Shadowhunters have fallen into Lake Lyn, and it's _killed_ them. I've pulled their dead bodies from the Lake myself."

Magnus clasps his hands before him, a puff of glitter rising in the air. "I think you have to fly into it at lightspeed to make the transition between dimensions." Jace blinks at this strange man for a moment, pondering the credibility of someone wearing plaid pants with a polka dot bowtie. Finally, he nods.

"Worth a shot." He turns to hoist himself into his bird once more but is pulled to a stop by the firm grip of the king. It's then he truly sees the king. Behind his graying hair and harsh gaze is a father who loves his daughter, who will do anything to protect her.

"I'm not asking you to die for me, son." Jace nods once.

"You don't have to. I'd do anything for that woman." Lucian's face softens, a look of adoration and gratitude rather than a tight business expression.

He clasps Jace in a tight embrace. "Thank you," he says gruffly before releasing him. Jace merely nods, pulling himself up and flying into the stars once more.

X.O.X.O.X

She squeezes her eyes shut tight enough to draw tears, the black behind her eyes flashing violet as her head collides against the cement wall. A thousand images flash before her eyelids—her old bedroom with her mother's threadbare quilt, her father's office with the heavy scent of oak furniture, the training room across from Jace's concentrated stare—anywhere but here. The damp cells reek of decay, though all the prisoners around her have shifting eyes and menacing growls when her body leans too close to the bars. A steady drip of water echoes through the caverns, an annoying sound that nearly drives her to insanity as she waits for one of her captors to return.

"Father's entrusted this task to me, and I intend to fulfill his wishes," Jonathon tells her, his hand still gripping her skull with crushing force. His acrid breath forms a cloud around her head, drawing a cough from her lungs. It sprays red. She doesn't know how much more she can possibly bleed, the floors coated with her crusted blood. "We believe that the only way to rid you of your heavenly light is to secure your place in hell." Clary is unable to stop the incredulous laugh as it tears up her throat, slightly rough from the dryness of her mouth.

"You're going to force me to sin?" She laughs once more, shaking her head. She's startled by the way her curls don't brush against her cheeks, pasted to her scalp with sweat. "I don't know if you've _read_ the Christian bible, but that's not how God works." Her brother's fingers dig into her skin, just outside her eye socket. She cringes away from his touch. He grins.

"We are not God's children, dearest sister. We follow Raziel, who I must say is not as all-seeing and all-forgiving as the Christian God." She can feel her lip splitting as she releases a scream, her blood-soaked cotton gown being torn from her emaciated frame. "Raziel does not absolve the unforgivable." Jonathon is undoing his weapons belt, leaving her to watch in horror as it falls loudly to the ground in front of her. She'd already tried to convince these men of her mundane status but to no avail.

"Please," she whispers, desperate now as she scrabbles backward, the rough wall scraping her skin. "You don't want to do this."

"Don't I?" he asks aloud, quirking a white-blond eyebrow. His eyes have become pits in his face, emotionless and terrifying as he begins his slow approach. "What have I to lose? I'm the Prince of Lake Lyn, future King of Hell. I have everything to _gain_." His fingers have found the necklace Jace had given her, but instead of ripping it from her neck, he merely shrugs, letting it fall back between her breasts.

Her tongue is like sandpaper in her mouth as she searches for a counter to that, tucking her knees under her chin in an attempt to cover herself. "You think that Valentine will simply hand the crown to you? He can't die if he's already in Hell."

Jonathon roars, his chest now bare as he shreds the shirt he'd been wearing. She averts her gaze, not wanting to think about what is about to happen. "Valentine is a righteous man. He stands by his promises. He will make the Shadowhunters pure once again."

"Please," she begs once more, tears stinging her eyes. She'd take Valentine's knife a thousand times over this. "Don't do this. Just kill me."

"Trust me, Clarissa, I want to. I want to see your chest rise with its last breath, watch that ghastly and unnatural light leave those pretty green eyes of yours, but Valentine prefers you alive, hoping to continue the truest bloodline." His fingers move to the snaps on his pants as he presses forward. "So I'm fine with just watching you suffer."

Her screams open the scabs in her dry throat, filling her mouth with copper as she tugs against her bindings. The prisoners around her show no concern for her as they watch the scene unfold, most likely pleased to watch the Shadowhunter suffer. "It will go fast if you don't struggle," he says lowly in mock concern, his breath fanning over her face as she speaks. She wants to retch, but her empty stomach doesn't allow her to as his hand cups her cheek.

She bites him enough to draw blood, spitting it in his face.

"You little bitch!" he hisses, stepping back to unravel a cord from his wrist. _A whip_ , she identifies just as it is cutting down across her back. Her satisfaction of the saliva running down his forehead is stopped short by the agonizing pain pulling through her body.

"Jace!" she calls out, her lips forming words on their own accord. The whip continues to collide with her back as his name continues to fall from her tongue, quieter and quieter each time until the world before her is edged in black.

"I'll be back," Jonathon growls just as the creeping black overcomes her vision entirely. Before her mind goes blank, she imagines a flash of gold.

X.O.X.O.X

Lake Lyn is often referred to as the hidden planet, for many people have never been able to find it while others have unknowingly flown right into its deadly grips. A planet made purely of water—it's windless atmosphere creates a reflective surface, like a crystalline drop of water suspended in the night. It blends into the starry sky, showing back the stars that surround it. It must be a peaceful demise, up where the air is empty and the stars shine as brilliant as a thousand suns. The silence of it all usually soothes him, lets his thoughts settle with the peace, but he misses Clary's incessant chatter, her silly laugh. Hell, he even misses her endless strings of insults followed by unending glares.

His mind is anything but calm as he circles Lake Lyn. He can see the hazy edges where the star patterns don't exactly match up the way they should, the duplicates of the planets in the distance. He's mumbling to himself to fill the void, bringing his hand up to rub his jaw, as he begins the initiation sequence, his fingers mindlessly pressing buttons. He's not nervous that his failure may kill him. He's cheated death so many times it's only right that it will catch him someday. He's not worried that Alec might have to run a recon mission to retrieve is charred body. He's worried about his failure bringing suffering to Clary, that if he's not strong enough, _warrior_ enough, he will be the cause of her death. And he can't live or die with that weight.

"Here goes nothing." His hand wraps around the lever, and he doesn't give himself time to think as he switches into lightspeed, charging directly at the camouflaged planet. The stars beside him have become streaking lines of white, and in a nanosecond, everything could be all over. He sees a blinding red light, the heat nearly unbearable as he grits his teeth.

And then he's enveloped by blackness, save for the glowing dials on his control panel. He flicks on the exterior lights as his bird finds purchase to land. The cavern around him is made of gray slate, stalagmites rising from the ground, pierced with the heads of whom Jace presumes are Valentine's enemies. "Nice touch," he grumbles as the gate to his ship opens. He doesn't wait.

Last time, he'd known the princess would be able to handle herself for a while, giving him that cocky composure, the freedom to release some steam, taunt his prey. This time, though, he charges the demons, taking no time to mock them or even look at them as he cuts through their limbs, clearing himself a path from the hangar. Ichor sprays across his face, burning lines into his skin, but he presses forward, dancing among severed pieces and reaching claws. They don't disappear, solidifying the notion that he's entered their dimension, that he's currently in hell.

Pain tears through his shoulder as claws scrape at his collarbone, millimeters from his neck when he whips around and drives a blade through the demon's chest. Its answering screech rings in his ears, startling his heart, but he shows no mercy, using his foot as leverage to remove the weapon from where it's wedged between its ribs and removing the head of another opponent.

He leaves a path of death and destruction behind him as he sprints down the illuminated hallway, not giving demons a chance to notice him before sending them into a blank abyss. It's when he reaches an old, rusty door at the end of the labyrinth that a fae guard dares to square up with him. He hardens his solid red eyes on Jace, scowling with skin made of bark and fluttering, black wings. "You think that mind control bullshit will work on me," he laughs incredulously, catching its wrist when it attempts to drive a spike into his heart. "Nice try." He lands a blade between the thing's eyes, not taking the time to feel guilty as he pries the key ring from the fairy's dead fingers.

Footsteps echo around him as he fumbles with the keys. They clank loudly against the locks as he uses the wrong key again, shoving them angrily into the hole. "Damn it!" he growls to himself, using the other hand to steady his shaking wrist. He's seen a lot of death in his life, a lot of blood and gore, but he's not certain if he's prepared for what lay on the other side of this door.

"Clary's in there," he tells himself, heaving through the heavy door with a groan, his poisoned shoulder disputing his every motion. He can feel the ichor moving through his veins, slow like sludge but as hot as an inferno. It's in his fingertips now, slowly spreading across his chest and to his other arm. It brings with it a surreal desire to just stop and look around, to move achingly slowly.

He must keep moving. He can't risk passing about before Clary is back in Idris.

The room is dark as he shuts the door behind him, an ominous drop of water falling rhythmically in the distance, creating a sadistic melody to this dungeon. Cells line either side of a dimly lit pathway, lifeless lumps resting in the center of each. Downworlders—he recognizes as one finds enough strength to bare its elongated canines. He pulls his attention away, knowing he doesn't have the time nor energy to release and contain them.

His footsteps echo through the cavernous room, a terrifying sound as he nears the end of the room. "Clary," he breathes as his eyes land upon the very last cell. The keys work easily for him this time as he opens the door, falling to his knees beside her and engulfing her in his embrace. She's too weak to weep, merely burying her face into his neck, her fingers touching his blood-encrusted curls.

"Jace." Her voice is a raspy whisper as she says his name, disbelief crossing her eyes as he cradles the back of her head, wanting nothing more than to hide her from this horrible place. Her body quivers against his chest as he pulls her into his arms, assessing what they've done to her. She's naked, covered in blood from cuts lacing across her back and abdomen. Lashings—he recognizes as he smooths her dirty hair. They're septic, inflamed and oozing. Her few runes are faded, showing how weak she really is. "Let's get you out of here," he whispers softly in her ear, hauling himself to his feet slowly as to not jostle her. She's so small in his arms, easily supported without having her hands looped around his neck. Her head lolls around, eyes slowly travelling from the ceiling to his face as they pass dead guard after dead guard, a tangible representation of the rage coursing through him earlier.

She shouldn't have to see it. Not after enduring Valentine's wrath. She shouldn't have to see that her husband is exactly the same as him, filled with a sick desire to kill, to cut flesh with sharp metal, to watch the life leave his enemies' eyes and rise victorious. "Are you hurt?" she whispers hoarsely, trailing the burn on his face with soft fingers. She can barely hold her arm up, propping it against his chest for support.

"I'm fine," he tells her gently, thankful that they've not yet encountered a live opponent. He's not entirely sure how he'd fend them off without hurting Clary in the process.

He doesn't have to ask his droid to drop the ramp because Church knows exactly what he needs as he hauls Clary onto the ship, closing it and initiating the launch sequence as Jace places her on the bench momentarily, finding a cloak to wrap her shivering body in. "Don't look at me," she gasps in a voice that sounds like her throat is made of sandpaper, eyes trained on her clasped hands as she tries to maintain some dignity. They flicker toward the stele in his hand, but he slips it from her reach.

"You're my _wife_ , Clary," he protests as she attempts to tend her own wounds. "Let me do this for you." His voice cracks as she shies away from his touch. He lets his hand hover in the space between them, a silent question as she blinks away tears. Church has them in hyperspace, shooting into their own dimension as Jace watches her carefully. " _Please_." It's a desperate sound, much like when he'd rescued her the first time. Except she was strong then, unbreakable beneath his sure and steady hands. Now, those same hands terrified her, sent ice through her veins. She was crumbling and even stitches couldn't hold her together. She averts her eyes with a subtle nod, allowing him to pull her shivering body carefully into his arms, maneuvering through his ship with great care.

He lays her gently across the bed, unconcerned when his pristine white blankets begin to turn crimson. He lays her on her side, where her wounds are the shallowest. The whip cut deep, nearly to the bone. Black ichor oozes from the slices. Demon poisoning, he recognizes. "Church, send a message for Magnus to wait at the hangar." His right-hand slips into Clary's as he brandishes his stele. "Hold on, love." He doesn't need to tell her that it's going to hurt, but it's terrifying to see the light fading from her eyes, to see the strongest person he's ever been privileged to know giving up so easily, to watch her teeter on the edge of unconsciousness as he traces the iratze onto her tattered skin.

Her screams turn his veins to ice as she writhes beneath him, unintelligible words falling from her mouth. She's hurting, and it's his fault. He draws faster, watching the bleeding slowly ebb away as the cuts knit themselves together. She won't be healed completely until the demon ichor is removed from her system, but the pain will soon subside. "Beautiful woman, do you even know what you do to me?" He fists his hair in his other hand, letting the stele clatter to the floor as her breaths fall evenly in the silence between them.

An unfamiliar weight has found home in his stomach as he sits there, clutching her cold hand to his chest, foreign tears pricking his eyes. "Don't leave me," he murmurs desperately, brushing a kiss across her split knuckles. The demon poisoning has reached his brain, making his vision go hazy at the edges. His thought running rampant with no control. "I love you."

Even through the fog, that one startles him to silence, the words rolling off his tongue on their own accord, falling on a deaf crowd as he rocks back onto his heels. He's finally done it, broken his one true vow. Protection—that's all he'd hoped to offer this world. Because everyone he's ever loved has succumbed to Valentine's murderous wrath, he had to keep those he wanted to protect at a distance rather than touching them with his cursed emotions.

 _Look what it's done to Clary,_ his mind grumbles to itself, nagging at him for ever having let himself slip so far. He should have argued the marriage, should have run off with some other woman that day, taken his ship to Alicante and never returned. But as he smooths Clary's hair from her eyes, he knows he never could have done that. From the first day he'd lain eyes on her, he'd been under her spell. His mind calls out to her. His skin begs to touch her, his lips to kiss her. It's his own selfishness that caused this, his own desires.

He tears his eyes away from her, pulling a fresh blanket over her to keep her warm as he turns toward the cockpit, the motion throwing off his balance and sending him onto the floor beside Clary. "Church," he calls to his droid in an exhausted voice, reaching up to weave his fingers through hers. "Take our princess home." The responding beeps can't be heard through the darkness that pulls him under.

* * *

 _Reviews for Jace telling Clary he loves her?_

All My Love to YOU

~BallinBlonde21


	17. Heal Me

_I have one word to describe this chapter. **Clace.** Without further ado, please enjoy!_

* * *

 _The Shadow Wars_

 _Chapter 17: Heal Me_

 _Songs:_

 _Part 1: Mixed Drinks About Feelings - Eric Church (MY FAVORITE SINGER EVER)_

 _Part 2: Say You Won't Let Go - James Arthur_

 _Part 3: Make You Feel My Love - Sleeping At Last_

* * *

The whiskey warms his throat as he takes another gulp. It makes him feel awakened, alive as it burns through his chest, igniting an inferno in his veins. Drinking alone in the middle of the day at his own kitchen table is enough to qualify him as an alcoholic, but he can't find it in him to care as he swirls the amber liquid in the crystalline glass. Upstairs, Clary lay in endless pain, trace amounts of venom slowing the healing process of her wounds.

All because he couldn't protect her.

He's failed once more.

What kind of Shadowhunter can't stop his wife from being plucked from right beneath his nose? All the runes lacing up his arms and across his shoulders give him no edge on Valentine. He is weak, useless.

He fills his glass again as he begins sucking on air, his eyes lazily trailing the window projections on the wall. He always lets Clary pick their outside world, happy to gaze upon the things that please her. Before she'd been taken, she'd picked a beach, with an endless blue horizon of water melting into sky and powdered sand morphing into waves as they lapped at the shore. It was more tropical than the little hole Jace had taken her to, but she loved it all the same.

And then she told a stupid joke.

 _Hey, Jace, what did the ocean say to the shore_?

 _Oceans can't talk, Clary_ , he'd replied in a bored tone, not looking at her as he scanned through updates from the frontlines.

 _Yeah, so it only waved!_ And then she snorted, looking over her coffee at him with smiling eyes. She is always unperturbed by his perpetual state of annoyance, pestering him even more when he refuses to give into her contagious grin.

So he'd returned his gaze to the news, an uncomfortable heat taking root in his chest, so unlike the warmth that whiskey brought him.

This is an all-consuming kind of heat, engulfing him in one moment. From then, it's a slow burn, flames still lapping away at him even through the decay of time and numbness of alcohol.

He drops his head into his hands, never more ashamed to be a married man than now. Even rat boy is able to protect Isabelle. He doesn't deserve to be married to the Idrisian princess, to the woman with the kindest, most honest heart.

Footsteps pound down the stairs, and Jace peeks through his splayed fingers, his eyes landing upon a man with electric blue hair and matching sparks jumping on his fingertips. His peculiar cat eyes scrutinize Jace, the whiskey glass moving away from him seemingly on its own accord.

"She is resting now," Magnus tells him, the electricity dying down on his hands as he rests them on the countertop. "What are you doing?" His purple eyebrows shoot up toward his hairline as Jace takes a drink straight from the bottle of Jack, wincing only slightly as it touches his tongue.

"I'm having mixed drinks about feelings," he slurs intentionally, wanting nothing more than for someone to put him in his place, to cut him down into the laughable piece of shit that he is.

The bottle, too, is moved from his reach, appearing once more beside the sink. "She is going to need you when she wakes up. I trust that you will be there?" His eyes narrow on Jace, another reminder of his inadequacy.

Normally, Jace would rise to his full stature, curling his fingers into fists so the veins in his arms bulge, and stare at anyone who dare to insult him, but now he finds no desire to argue. Because he agrees.

"Yes, of course," he grumbles without looking up. Magnus says no more, and the door creaks shut moments later. He doesn't reach for his drink again. He pounds his fist on the countertop, knee bouncing nervously beneath it.

Clary needed him before, and he failed. She needs him now, and he will not.

He lifts himself, steady on his feet even through the haze of alcohol. The stairs groan under his weight, but he presses forward, slipping through the door that leads to her bedchamber. The lights are dim.

She's so small in the king-sized bed. Her vibrant red curls splayed out on the white sheets are the only source of color. She's as pale as the blankets, her eyelids purple as they flutter with whatever dream she is having.

Her skin has knitted itself together once more, but he can sense the ichor running through her veins, draining her energy until the cure works its way through.

Jace is used to the feeling of his limbs turning to sludge as he waits it out, having had the cure pumped through him so many times it barely affects him anymore. But Clary has never experienced this. _Should have_ never experienced this, he amends, pushing his fingers through his hair as she stirs.

The white noise in his head is broken through by the sound of her coughing, wide awake as she reaches for a pail Magnus left by her bed. He's by her side in a second, tangling his fingers into her curls to hold them back as her body expels the rejected ichor.

She leans over the pail for a few more seconds before wiping her mouth on a towel. He can see the tears pricking her eyes, intensified by the overwhelming amount of shame on her face. "Hey," he whispers, scratching his fingers along her scalp. She's physically restraining herself from leaning into his touch. It's because he's let her down, because he could never be enough.

"My whole body hurts," she moans as he takes the pail from her grasp, helping her lay back against the pillows once more.

"I'm sorry." He can't meet her eyes as he apologizes, choosing instead to dump the contents of the pail into the toilet and rinse it out. When he finally does turn back, she's looking at him incredulously, like he's the biggest idiot on this side of the galaxy.

"You saved me, Jace." It's not said in awe. It's not emotionally charged, or a means to boost his ego. It's a statement. Four little words that hold so much truth for her and so much agony for him.

"I should have never let him get to you." If only he hadn't been away from her. If only he hadn't thrown himself into the fight. He hands her the toothbrush he's gotten from the bathroom, helping her scrub the ichor from her teeth.

"You do _not_ get to have a fucking… _pity party_ while I am on my deathbed." Jace shakes his head, a traitor smile tugging at his lips.

"Look, Princess, I know you get faint at the sight of blood, but this cut probably isn't going to kill you." She smiles back at him then, a story of another rescue from another time—a time when she hated the sight of him, when simply being near her reminded him of what he could lose.

"Jace," she breathes, quietly so he can barely hear, like she just wanted to say his name to make sure this is real. The way his body reacts to his name on her lips is embarrassing. Heat floods through his veins, warming all the way to his toes as his heart starts to pound against his ribcage, fighting for release.

She's looking at him expectantly, the blanket pulled beneath her chin. She's so frail that he wants to take her in his arms and never let her go, never let anyone go near her again. He sits on the edge of the bed, watching it dip under his weight.

Her hand shoots out and pulls him down beside her, their bodies facing, warmth radiating in the space between them.

"My figured out has never been more confused," he whispers, her breath fanning warmth across his face as he gently takes her chin in his fingers, tilting her face up so their lips were millimeters apart.

He kisses her like he can take away her pain, transfer it from her body straight to his. Her fingers gingerly toy with a curl by his ear, while his move to cup her cheek. He pulls away finally, her eyes slowly peeling open as a smile graces her lips.

"You taste like whiskey."

And she kisses him again.

X.O.X.O.X

She's curled between his legs, his fingers twisting into her hair as she leans into the bowl of the toilet. "This reminds me of the first time we spoke," he tells her, combing his fingers along her scalp as she falls against his chest, body coated in a fine sheen of sweat. He kisses her temple gently as she prompts him to remind her.

Her eyes had danced right over him in the shimmering, chandelier's light. The brilliance reflected in her glittering crimson dress, cascading like a waterfall as she allowed a recently marked Twelve to twirl her in a circle. The diamonds of light danced against her creamy skin, unmarked by both runes and scars as hand after hand encircled her wrist, requesting one spin with the beloved princess, one moment to capture her attention, to make an impression. Her rouge lips parted in small smiles, revealing perfectly white teeth and a single dimple on her left cheek. She spoke with soft, deliberate words, always thanking each partner for his time before being pulled in another direction.

He felt completely unsuited to grab her petite hands, with his dirt-encrusted fingernails and sweat smudging his face. His black gear stood out in the sea of red. The only part of him that matched was the bloodied spots in his blackened hair. Whispers floated around him as he stood with his blades visible. _Terrorist_ , some muttered in horror, quickly skittering away from his location. Others watched him curiously, including the king, who'd risen from his golden throne. "General Herondale!" he announced in that booming voice of his. "Welcome to your celebration!" Applause replaced fear as Jace stood encircled by hundreds of people, dressed to the nines to drink and dance in the name of war.

This wasn't right, to be applauded, cheered on because his men had died to extinguish one meager fleet of Valentine's army. They were the heroes. They deserved the honor and the party. Jace had commanded their deaths, and though he'd flown right beside them, the first to charge the enemy, he hadn't done enough. Widows were mourning their husbands, children their fathers. He was inadequate. He wasn't enough. "Would you like to dance?" the princess asked in a gentle voice. The way she spoke had its own unique melody, rising above the cheers and music to reach his ears.

"I'd be honored," he responded uniformly, the Shadowhunter discipline following him off the battlefield. She didn't shy away from his rough hands as he settled one on her hip, the crowd filling in around them as he began to lead her across the dancefloor. Her brilliant green eyes looked bored from up close, lackluster amidst the celebration. "Forgive me, princess," Jace said quietly into the space between them, "but you do not seem to be enjoying yourself."

She released a loud, unladylike huff, and her grip on his hand tightened subtly with frustration. "You're the first one to notice." Her remark was more to herself than to him as she straightened, returning to the picturesque princess she appeared to be from meters away. "I loathe celebrations." Jace was distracted by the intricate way her hair was pulled up in golden pins, the curls smooth and silken in the golden light.

"It seems we have something in common, princess," he responded after a moment, worried what she might think of the dirt on his face, of the blood in his hair.

"You do not need to call me _princess_." Jace flashed a smile, hoping his teeth at least were clean. Oftentimes they were not, especially when battles were fought on land.

"I quite like it." To his dismay, the song died, and she separated their fingers, using hers to encircle another glass of champagne, ignoring her father's obvious discontent. She tipped the contents backward like it were water, completely forgoing the polite way of sipping at the drink. She reached for another one before turning her eyes on Jace.

"You wouldn't happen to have any whiskey, would you?" Somehow, Jace had done exactly what the men before him were trying to do. He'd gotten her attention. He smirked slowly, turning on his heel as she made sure her father was distracted before slipping after him. The silence was heavy as they trailed past the rows of the dead in route to Jace's suite in the military wing. "Did that happen today?" Jace nodded solemnly, avoiding eye contact while his mind played back images of him pulling the dead onto his ship, refusing to leave one man behind. "I'm sorry." It was such a strange thing for her to say. He wasn't the one lying dead on the concrete floor. He wasn't the one who'd lost his life to save his own kind. Jace shrugged, shouldering his way through the door to his apartment, dropping his weapon at the door and diving straight for the liquor without even turning on the lights. He decided that the princess was worthy of the good stuff and poured two glasses. "For a minute, I thought you were going to kill me," she joked, tipping this alcohol back as easily as the champagne.

Jace offered her more, and she accepted, the twinkle in her eyes real and shining through the darkness. Her cheeks were beginning to turn pink, her curls slipping from the pins. Jace decided he liked them better loose, where they had the freedom to bounce. "Feel free to help yourself," he told her after a beat of silence, sliding from his position on the stool and heading down the hall. "I am going to clean myself up."

He half expected to hear the front door slam closed, but instead, he heard liquid being poured into the glass, soft feet following his trail. "I don't want to be alone," she told him with a shrug, sliding down the wall onto the floor outside the bathroom. "Talk to me." Jace laughed once, but allowed her this, grabbing a towel and flipping on the light.

"Would you like to watch me undress, too?" He didn't know if the increased blush in her cheeks was from embarrassment or alcohol, but she didn't allow him victory as she took another sip of his whiskey.

"Maybe." He narrowed his eyes, and she bit her lip, watching intently as he pulled his sweaty t-shirt over his head, revealing endless scars and purple bruises. His actions surprised even himself. He wasn't one to show his weaknesses, to reveal himself to strangers like this. He was calculating her reaction as he dropped the cloth to the floor. Her pupils were dilated, trailing crevices of his muscles, down to the waistband of his pants. Her breath hitched in her throat as he undid his belt, allowing it to join his shirt on the floor. She was watching with bated breath as he removed his pants, and he could almost hear her heart hammering in her chest when his thumbs hooked around the waistband of his boxers.

What surprised him was when she squeezed her eyes shut. He laughed, but she refused to peek until the shower was running. "Is it safe?" This drew another laugh from his lungs, and only then did he realize how long it had been since someone had made him laugh, really _laugh_.

"Yes, princess, you're safe." He couldn't see if she opened her eyes. He was too busy watching the water run red beneath him, the cost of war. The heat stung his cuts, but he refused to hiss in pain. Instead, he focused on the woman's incessant babbling. She seemed to be spitting out anything that came to her mind, from the annoying voices of noble daughters to the stupid dress she was wearing. "I think you're beautiful," he murmured, appalled when he realized he'd said it out loud.

"It must be the dress. I'm actually distinctly below average." Jace averted another embarrassing compliment as he shut off the shower, pulling down the towel he'd draped over the rod and securing it around his waist.

When he stepped out, he found Clary tipped over giggling, the entire bottle of whisky grasped in her fingertips. Shaking his head, he side-stepped her to his bedroom, pulling on a pair of sweatpants. He gasped when he turned around and found Clary leaning against his doorjamb for support. "I'm so uncomfortable!" she complained, reaching around with one hand to find the ties of her corset. "Help."

"Princess, I'm not sure if this is—" _appropriate_ , he was going to say, but he came up short. He'd never turn down a woman's request to undress her. It must have been because she was a princess, because she was so far out of his league.

"You're a general. You're supposed to help people," she huffed. Jace resigned then, wanting to return to his normal state of disinterest. His fingers astutely unwove the ties, brushing along the smooth skin of her back as he did, causing a shiver to race down her spine. He watched with clenched teeth as the dress fell softly to the floor, pooling around her long, creamy legs. She turned to him, smiling brilliantly in her lace panties and matching bra. Jace had to fight his body's instincts and hand her one of his t-shirts, helping her pull it over her head as she tried to dance from his grasp.

When her head appeared above the neckline, she grasped his cheek, running her thumb across it. "You're beautiful." She whispered it, like it was a secret, before twisting from his arms once more. The amber liquid in her hand sloshed, and Jace took it from her, feeling the need to catch up.

She danced to a silent melody as he gulped the burning liquid, hoping for some sweet release from the darkness plaguing the day. He found it after half the bottle, his bleary vision honing in on a red bundle of curls. She was slurring her words as she threw her arms around his neck, her lips finding his pulse point as his hands gripped beneath her thighs, hoisting her around his waist. Her legs latched onto him as he walked her to the bed, laying her gently beneath him, stopping her assault on his neck by finding her lips.

She responded vigorously, her legs still hooked around his hips as her tongue caressed his. He balanced himself above her, his hands roaming the expanse of smooth skin before him. Freckles dotted her skin, and she looked ethereal in the silver moonlight his window was showing him that night. "Princess," he told her between kisses, but instead of responding, her lips attached to his neck once more, his eyes rolling back into his head as she began to gyrate against him.

He let his hand snake between them, lifting up the edge of the t-shirt she was wearing to dust his fingers lightly along her thighs. The responding moan and bucking of her hips into his was enough conformation for him to brush them over her panties. "Jace," she moaned as he began to work circles against her, stretching the neckline of his own shirt to release her nipple. He took it in his mouth, swirling his tongue around it as she pushed herself into his hand, seeking more friction. It felt so right to be right here, sprawled out above the princess, giving her everything she could ever need. "Jace!" she shouted as he brought her to the edge, her eyes staring wildly into his as he sought to bring her over. When it happened, her eyes rolled back, her perfectly pink lips parting in a small _o_.

Her chest was heaving when she finally floated down from her high, her fingers tracing small circles across his bare chest. A sloppy smile spread across his lips as he leaned down to kiss her once more, savoring each second he might have her for.

Everything stopped as she pushed him away abruptly, leaping to her feet and sprinting in the direction of the bathroom. Jace followed quickly behind, gathering up her beautiful curls in his fingers as she heaved into the toilet. Normally, he'd be inconsiderate, thinking more of himself than the sick woman before him, but this situation was less than normal. He situated himself behind her, one leg on each side as she apologized. He shushed her gently, combing his fingers through her curls as she finished. He sat up as she looked over her shoulder, giving him a drunken smile before collapsing against his chest. The alcohol in his system seemed to disappear as she lay against him, warm and human while his fingers worked out knots in her hair. "Can I stay with you?" Jace knew no way to say no, so he helped her to her feet and found her a toothbrush. He helped her wash the makeup from her face, finding he much preferred her without the heavy creams.

The moment he tucked the blankets securely around her, she was asleep, a small smile playing on her lips. He kissed behind her ear before sliding in opposite her, looping one arm around her waist and allowing himself a moment to enjoy the strange feelings in his chest.

"You seduced me," she groans from her position in front of him, falling back against his chest and curling into his embrace. Her body seems so frail against his, shaking against the poison in her system. He tucks a curl behind her ear and kisses her tenderly.

"You're delusional," he jokes, letting her curl her fist into his shirt as tears slip from her eyes. He just smooths his hand down her back, waiting for it to pass. He'd asked her to stop apologizing for every time she got sick, for every time she broke down, but she does it anyway. "For better or for worse," he tells her softly, running his thumb across her knuckles, feeling her wedding ring firmly in place on her ring finger. He wants so badly to whisper his love for her, to fill the void Valentine left her with, but instead, he just rocks her gently back and forth, biting back against the fear sinking in the pit of his stomach.

X.O.X.O.X

She buries her face into her pillow as the early morning light pours through her window, rousing her from the deepest sleep she's had in weeks. She curls the blanket around her like a cocoon, wallowing in the warm comfort the threadbare quilt gives her. It's almost easy for her to pretend that life right now is normal, that she'll get up, train with Jace, and have breakfast with her father, save for the soft snores filling the otherwise silent morning. Jace sits at the side of her bed, head tipped back against an armchair he'd dragged into the room when she didn't offer to share the bed, terrified of what a man's touch might do to her in the depths of her unconsciousness. She lifts her eyelid just enough to see his golden curls falling around him, the planes of his face as smooth as a child's. He wears no shirt, his artwork of tattoos and scars on full display as she works to memorize each line.

Jace had taken Magnus's place of watching over her, of caring for her when she was sick. She'd been surprised by the gentleness in his fingertips as he held her hair back, by the hesitance in his hands as he massaged her knots in her shoulders, by the softness in his eyes as he smoothed the blankets over her shivering frame. It's a side she's never seen before, a nurturing side, a caring side. "Good morning," a gruff voice greets, and her attention snaps to his face, where he's peering at her through one cracked eye, the golden iris amused as his mouth tugs up into a smirk. "Feeling better, are we?" All she can do is nod, curling further in on herself in an attempt to hide her embarrassed flush. Judging by his throaty chuckle, she does a very poor job of this. "Do you want to try to eat some breakfast today?" All his humor has dissipated, filled with genuine concern as he rises from his perch, his muscles rippling with the motion. It's difficult to form a coherent thought when he's this close to her, when his musk washes over her with every little movement.

"Sure," she croaks, cringing at the sound of her own voice. Her lungs protest the word, her mouth dry and cracked. Jace merely brushes a curl from her forehead, tucking it delicately behind her ear.

"Pancakes?" She nods, not chancing her voice again as she rolls onto her back, clutching the blanket to her chest. He smiles at her, a genuine one that shows his chipped incisor. "Do you want to come to the kitchen with me?" Now, she gnaws on her lip, rolling her eyes to the ceiling as she does a quick evaluation of how she feels.

The skin of her back and abdomen aches, the wounds filled with demon poisoning, impervious to iratzes. But her stomach has settled, and she only threw up once last night. Her muscles are begging to be used, so she nods. Jace reaches a hand out to her, hovering it between them, waiting for her to initiate contact, for her to close the distance.

Her heart hurts. She'd kissed him, and that very night screamed when he fixed her bandages as she slept. She wept in his arms, but his touches were now tentative, nervous even, as if she might turn him away once more. Instead, she clutched it, allowing him to help her to her feet and support her down the stairs. "We need to change your bandages," he tells her cautiously as she perches on a barstool at the island, trying to keep her jaw closed as he stretches upward to grab the coffee grounds from the cabinet, the muscles in his back contracting and relaxing in mesmerizing ways. It's intriguing to study how cohesively his body moves, like a finely tuned machine as opposed to a human being.

"Okay," she mumbles as he dumps water into the coffee maker, smiling softly at her when he turns around. "Right now?" she asks, alarm seeping into her voice. Jace had seen her undressed before, but she'd be damned if it didn't make her heart beat a bit erratically every time. He nods curtly, and she complies, allowing herself to be hoisted onto the cold countertop, wearing nothing but his t-shirt and a pair of panties. She gasps pleasantly when his mouth settles against hers, a whisper of a kiss, but it removes her fears. Jace guides her arms through her shirt, the gauze and tape collected beside her, brushing up against her bare thigh.

Her body is covered in a blush, creeping up her neck from her breasts as Jace gnaws on his lower lip in concentration, undoing the tie on the bloodied gauze and unraveling the wrapping. She has to admit there's nothing sexual about it, the way her puckered and red skin appears beneath the bandage, the way Jace clinically applies cream and rebinds her chest. She'd have felt like it was any other visit to the doctor had Jace not smoothed his hand up her thigh, had he not huskily whispered how much he loved her in his shirt.

He helps her back into the barstool and pours her a cup of coffee, watching with scrutinizing eyes as she sips delicately at it. She doesn't blame him. She'd been throwing everything up for days now. It's predicable that this would not be kind to her stomach. After a few minutes, he turns on the stove and begins mixing a pancake batter, his pajama pants slung low on his hips. She'd never allowed herself to gawk at him much, never feeling the need to boost his ego, but with his back turned, she trails her eyes up and down, memorizing every divot, every swell, every mole and blemish. After all, beauty rests in one's flaws. His hips sway with each swirl of his spoon, and she knows he can feel her eyes on him, judging by the throaty, seductive chuckle that rumbles his chest and shoulders.

All her drawings of this man have never done him justice. Accurate depictions of his proportions and colors, they still fall flat. They've never been able to encapsulate the life that radiates from every pore of his being. The caring protector, the fervent warrior, the childish joy, the soft kindness, the burning passion—There are so many parts of Jace that a paper cannot express. She could draw the sweeping planes of his chest for years and never once recognize the person staring back at her.

When she comes back to reality, Jace is eyeing her with one raised brow, a frying pan elevated in his hand as he moves to flip a pancake onto her plate. Surprisingly, he doesn't have a comment, merely pushing the syrup in her direction and finishing the task at hand. She pushes her food with her fork until he seats himself beside her with a stack twice as high. She watches him curiously as he douses his in syrup, shoving a huge, sticky bite into his mouth and smiling at her through it. Rolling her eyes, she takes a tentative bite. "You didn't poison these, did you?"

One side of his face lifts into a grin as he talks around the food in his mouth. "Too late now, eh?" She can't help the laugh that bubbles from her stomach, and she notices Jace watching her with sparkling eyes. She has to admit, Jace's cooking is delicious. Though, it may have to do with the fact the she hasn't eating anything more than toast in days. She turns to him conversationally, dragging her fork through the pool of syrup as he speaks. "What are you doing today?"

 _You_ , her mind supplies without thought, and she has to hide her red face by dropping her gaze to her meal once more. "Uh…nothing…I guess," she stammers into her pancakes, taking up a sudden interest in how they rise back to shape when she flattens them with her fork.

"Great, me neither!" he announces brightly, his lips spreading into a smile that again reveals his chipped incisor. It's his most endearing feature.

"How did you chip your tooth?" she finds herself asking, reaching out to run her thumb across his lip, pulling it into view. Jace laughs, a throaty sound, as he captures her wrist, holding her opened palm against his cheek as he leans into it. There's a faraway look in his eyes as he falls through time, transported back to a past that was undoubtedly much simpler.

"Isabelle," he announces with a shake of his head. There's so much affection in the way he says her name that Clary wonders how he says her name to others. "I crashed her first date, and she threw her high heel at me." He winces, but there's love in his words as he runs his thumb across the back of her knuckles. She so badly wants to know this man, to know his dreams, the way he thinks, the way he sees the world. There's a rawness in his gaze right now, one that tells her he'd answer anything she'd ask.

"What were your parents like?" He doesn't start at the mention of his family, and the dreamy look only deepens, his smile putting a dimple in his cheek.

"My father was my hero. He first taught me to use a seraph blade when I was four. He spent hours teaching me technique, critiquing me, complimenting me. Even when he was reprimanding me, which often I rightfully deserved, there was compassion in his blue eyes." He pauses for a moment, still running his finger along Clary's hand, like he just wants to know that she's there. "My mother—she was a lot like you, you know," he says with a devilish grin. "She didn't bow down to anyone, not even my father. She was as free as the birds, and my father and I loved her more for it." Clary is silent for a moment.

"My mother was kind," Clary says in a quiet voice. "She was quiet, but she was strong. No man could defeat her, could beat the fire from her soul. I guess that's why illness took her…because she was certainly too stubborn to die at the hands of another. She would have lived forever if that were the case." She finds herself laughing quietly. "She used to sing this song to me. I…I can't really remember the words, but I can still feel it," she pushes a hand against her heart, "right here, you know?" Her voice trails off as a tear drips from her eye, splattering against her thigh. "I'm just afraid that I'll forget her. Her voice, her face—I don't want to forget her, Jace. I can't forget her."

Jace pulls her against his chest as her lungs heave for air, stroking her curls with one hand as he shushes her gently. "You won't forget her, princess. A woman like Queen Jocelyn demands to be remembered." Her sob morphs into a laugh as she nods against him, the truth in that statement humorous. "My mom used to sing me a lullaby, too. I can sing it for you, if you'd like?" His question is timid, nervous even, but she grips his t-shirt with wet fingers, nodding as he inhales heavily.

"I see the moon," he starts in a voice that his thick and slow like molasses, "the moon sees me, shining through the leaves of the old oak tree." He's caressing her back in time with his words, almost unconsciously as she peers up at him through laden eyelashes. "Oh, let the light that shines on me, shine on the one I love." There's a smile in that voice, a memory long filed away resurfacing, a moment of vulnerability as he continues. "Over the mountain, over the sea, back where my heart is longing to be." He catches her eyes and drops a kiss against her nose, almost like it's timed there, like he can't help himself. "Oh, let the light that shines on me, shine on the one I love." Jace continues singing, rocking her back and forth in the security of his arms, making her giggle. "I hope you enjoyed that, princess, because it was a one-time performance."

Clary ponders this thoughtfully for a moment. "I could always command you to sing to me. And you do not want to disobey my commands." She can't keep the grin from her face as she says the words, the threat falling completely flat. The rest of the day consists of asking questions, learning every possible thing about the other, no question off limits as Clary curls her feet beneath her on the sofa, her head lolling against Jace's shoulder. "If you found a new animal, what would you name it?" he asks.

"Well, what does it look like?" she replies in exasperation. There is no possible way she can name something without knowing it's appearance.

"It's the ugliest thing you've ever seen."

"Easy. I'd call it 'Jace.'" Jace snorts, his fingers digging into her ribs as he tickles her, causing her to thrash uncontrollably on the sofa. For once, her wounds don't hurt her. She's bathed in pale light, warmed by the compassion of this man beside her. "Thank you, Jace."

"For what?" he asks softly, his face only millimeters from hers. Each exhale of his breath fills her lungs as she grapples with reality, his proximity nearly rendering her unconscious.

"For being here. For being you."

"I don't know how to be anyone else, princess." She slaps his arm, muttering something about him ruining a good moment, but before she can finish, his mouth his hard against hers, warm and welcoming as he sets a slow, but persistent pace. Each word Valentine spat at her, each brush of Jonathon's fingers against her skin, they're slowly behind erased by this kiss. When Jace breaks away, he rests his forehead against hers. "I have another question," he tells her, though it's technically her turn. She nods, not trusting her voice when her nerve endings are still sparking in response to Jace's lips. "Can I kiss you again?"

* * *

 _We all deserved some happiness after these last few chapters. Please hit me with a review_

 _All My Love_

 _~BallinBlonde21_


	18. The Unbreakable Clary Fray

_Here's the update so many of you asked for. All eight thousand words of it. Enjoy!_

* * *

 _The Shadow Wars_

 _Chapter 18: The Unbreakable Clary Fray_

 _Songs:_

 _Part 1: Unsteady - X Ambassadors_

 _Part 2: Take All The Time You Need - Oh Honey_

 _Part 3: Plot Twist - Mark E. Bassy, Kyle_

 _Part 4: Issues (Acoustic) - Sara Farell_

 _Part 5:_ _Sucker for Pain – Lil Wayne, Wiz Khalifa, Imagine Dragons, Logic, X Ambassadors, Ty Dolla $ign_

 _Part 6: The One - Kodaline_

 _Part 7: The Devil's Bleeding Crown - Volbeat_

* * *

Darkness invades her bedroom like an unwelcome guest, the projection of her window mimicking a moonless night. It's not so much the blackness that terrifies her as the way it moves—slowly at first, creeping up on the edges and throwing dim shadows around the room. Then it engulfs the entirety of what it touches, swallowing it whole as hellfire does to its victims, subjecting everything to its black abyss.

And there's nothing she can do to stop it.

It surges forward, indomitable even after her attempts to flood the room with artificial light. She's powerless to it, forced to succumb to its darkest depths much as she had in _his_ dungeon. All she can feel is him—his fingers pressing into her mutilated flesh, his grip against her hips as the cold cement greets her skill after stumbling backward into the wall. Her fists are knotted into her sheets, sweat beading against her forehead, seeping into her crimson curls like blood.

Even with her eyes open, all she can picture is the death in their matching eyes, their acceptance of Lucifer into their angelic souls, and their complete descent into the fiery pits of hell. _You will join us, dear sister_. His voice bounces in her brain, reverberating off her skull like an eerie echo as the words play on repeat.

Jace's t-shirt sticks to every part of her body as she shoots upright, probing the scars that cut across her back and wrap around her sides. Despicable—that's the only word for her now. Behind those cursed bars, she hadn't been strong enough, _warrior_ enough to stop this from happening to her.

It's still fucking happening to her.

Valentine has infiltrated her mind—her most sacred of sanctuaries. One brush of his icy fingertips destroyed any solace she hoped to find. It was branded by his charred soul, by the burning words that instilled hatred in her very core.

The DNA twisted in her every cell, the blood coursing through her veins, her very _existence_ is linked to him. Her destiny lies with the Circle, and as much as she resists its dark temptation, it drags her every closer, calls to her like a flame to a moth. Every time she pulls away, forces herself to return to the Clave, a harsh recoil akin to that of a taut rubber band snaps her back.

Burying her face into her palms, she pushes her fingertips into her forehead, wishing that she could draw him out, forget his actions and his words, forget the iron bars that held her captive from the world, forget the utter brokenness in Jace's expression as his brilliant eyes cut through her personal hell.

 _Jace._

She'd never thought she'd admit it to herself, but he resides on the other end of that rubber band, stretching and gently drawing her back to him. Whereas the mere thought of Valentine sends freezing ice through her veins, Jace is a warm, steady presence. He wears her down slowly, tearing apart the walls she's built brick by agonizing brick until she's nearly begging to bare her soul to him. He is light, purity. His embrace keeps her in Idris as the shields protect her from abduction.

But do the shields really matter? Valentine's already permeated them, slipping by undetected as a memory inside her own mind. Without really trying, he's killing her, pushing her to an edge where she feels the world would thrive without her existence.

Wiping her face on her sleeve, she rises, the sheets falling away to reveal her bare, bruised legs. They wobble beneath her, unsteady in their footing as she urges them forward into the shadows, tucking rogue curls into her braid as she goes.

The door separating their bedrooms is cracked just enough for Clary to peer in. Jace's window shows him a full moon, casting ghostly silver light across his slumbering face. It's in such stark contrast to the way he appears when he's awake. In the daylight, he is golden, ethereal as he carries himself with pride. Awake, the planes of his face are hardened with focus, smiles rare and fleeting.

But sleep finds him peace, smoothing away those harsh lines and the worry from his forehead. His chest rises and falls in rhythm, not in the short gusts he releases during a fight. One hand rests lightly on his abdomen with fingers splayed. They're long, elegant fingers that she assumes would find musical instruments easy to master, had they not radiated power and confidence from years of Shadowhunting. Those fingers, though, are made of many contradictions. They are rough from callouses, yet tender while brushing away her tears. They are lethal in combat, but comforting while tending her wounds. They are isolated from human contact, but quick to weave into her tangled curls when demon poison is expelled from her body.

This man, once representing the loss of her freedom, her birthright to battle, her dream to set her own fate, now gives her the solace she can no longer find in herself. The general greets her with a compassion she had never believed him to be capable of. Despite the trials and tribulations of their arrangement, he cares for her in a way no one has before. He listens to her hopes and her opinions. He accepts her decisions after great debate. While everyone believes her to be fragile, Jace treats her as an equal opponent, one worthy of the respect of a full fight.

Her body is buzzing with electricity, pulling her through the threshold on its own accord, like a magnetic attraction. Light pools around her, an artificial warmth humming across the surface of her skin as her feet—no longer protesting—all but drag her to him.

It's in this moment the anxiousness decides to settle in. Her teeth sink into her bottom lip enough to draw blood as her eyes squeeze shut. Her instincts tell her to run before he wakes, to hold on to that part of her that resents his existence. But her skin is on fire as she reaches out to brush his cheek, tears she hadn't known she'd been holding back now falling like rain against his arm.

His chest rises out of sync as he pulls in a sharp breath, blinking his eyes as they adjust to the dark room. "Clary?" He shoots up in bed, his big hand engulfing hers as she drops her gaze, embarrassed. What had she been thinking, letting herself into his room while he slept? Only creeps do such things. "What's wrong?" Her apprehensions disperse as he wraps his arms around her waist, pulling her onto the bed next to him. "Are you hurting?"

She shakes her head, curls she'd just put into place falling free to brush against her nose. He radiates warmth as he pulls her into his embrace, tucking her under his chin. Her fingers curl into his shirt, and she's vaguely aware she's not wearing pants as he kisses the crown of her head. "There's something I learned on Lake Lyn." It almost causes her to weep again, but she finds strength in the way Jace is holding her close, like nothing can every drive them apart. "Something that changes who I am entirely."

"You can tell me anything, Clary. You know that." She nods into his shoulder, but the words fail her. A secret this toxic, this dark, will surely change the way Jace views her, if not cause him to despise her.

"I'm not who you think I am," she finally grits out, rolling her eyes to the back of her head to keep the tears at bay. "I'm not who _I_ thought I was." His fingers absently tug at one of her curls, pulling it and releasing it so it springs back into place. His eyes are tired but alive in the night, blazing like the morning sun as they capture her gaze.

"Nothing you can say will drive me away." She licks her lips, dropping her eyes to the parabatai rune on his chest.

"I am Valentine's daughter." The words hang between them, seemingly ensnared in the cool air, refusing to sink in and be forgotten.

"That's it?" he asks incredulously after a moment, but the sudden burst of laughter escaping her lips morphs into a sob. Her heart skips as Jace pulls her back to him, smoothing his hand up and down her back, soothing her.

His arms rock her gently, his soft breaths and the moonlight driving away her fears. No words are shared—none need to be as he rubs his hand down her back, holding her close to him until the silent sobs ebb away, replaced by soft hiccups, and then finally calm, even breathing.

"Hold on to me," she whispers against his neck, energy vibrating where her lips brush. It's so raw and vulnerable, like she expects him to ignore her request. Instead, he hugs her tighter, pulling them both flush against the mattress so she's curled against his chest.

She feels the blanket drawn over her heated flesh, strong, capable hands smoothing it out above her. "Valentine owns me," she tells him, bringing one hand up to wipe the corner of her eye. "He gets to me even now, where I know I'm safe." Jace's fingers massage circles into her arms, returning heat to where Valentine's name shot ice through her veins.

"You are much too strong believe that." She finds his eyes on her, tracking her facial expressions even in the darkness. She yawns, letting her head drop back to his chest as one of his arms wraps around her waist. "Sleep now, love." Her heart leaps into her throat, but she ignores it, chalking it up to a slip. He surely doesn't mean that.

"Don't let go," she replies, but the depths of sleep drag her down before she can hear his reply.

X.O.X.O.X

The hot water rolls over her skin, running tracks across her healing wounds and reliving the burning tension that seems to only leave her muscles when Jace. She can see the reflection of her green eyes in the showerhead as she watches the steam rolling over the glass and dissipate into the room, leaving fog on the mirror, exposing every fingerprint against the surface.

She'd woken to an empty bed that morning, the mattress beside her long turned cold as the sun pours through the window, cutting streaks of gold over Jace's black comforter. She was cocooned in his scent, curled in the little divot where his body usually lies. She's always startled by the lack of personal items he has. Everything is clean. Even the air is free of dustmites. He has a few textbooks and leisure readings stacked on his bedside table, only one photograph sticking out to mark the pages.

She's surprised when she pulls it out and finds its of her, laughing in her wedding gown, eyes focused off the camera. She'd thought it might be of the Lighwoods, or even his family from Alicante, but when her own face smiled back at her, it stopped all motion in her chest.

He'd left her a note beside his stack of books, scrawling out that he had to train with his Twelves and that he'd be back before noon. His writing is beautiful for a man's, a smooth, flowing script that perfectly mimics the complexity of his soul. He's so composed, so calm on the outside, seemingly unbothered by anything that happens around him. But inside tells a beautiful story, one of heartbreak and triumph, of sacrifice and gain. She'd held the scrap of paper against her breast, trying in vain to will away the butterflies dive-bombing her stomach.

It's just a stupid note. It holds nothing other than an explanation to his whereabouts, to give reason to his absence. But would the old Jace have even thought to leave her with something, to not want her believing her ditched her. Or would he merely have slipped from her embrace, replacing his body with a pillow and completely disregarding any feelings she might have about waking up alone?

She pushes these mushy thoughts away as the last of the conditioner is rinsed from her hair. Even though every part of her body screams in pain, she is intent on returning to training today, to remedy the pent up emotions threatening to explode from her.

"Isabelle!" the redhead gasps as she steps from the shower, a towel wrapped tightly around her torso in the other woman's presence. "What are you doing here?"

"Jace doesn't want you left alone…blah, blah," she says distractedly, inspecting a chip in her manicure.

"Well, did you have to be _in_ the bathroom?"

"I guess not," she says with a shrug, jutting her lip about a bit. "You don't do anything embarrassing in the shower like sing or moan—"  
"Isabelle!"

"You are married to the most promiscuous man on Idris. _You_ should hardly shy away from sex talk." Heat rises up to Clary's ears as she grabs a brush and yanks it through her curls. "Unless…" Isabelle begins, and Clary grows even redder. "You still haven't done it! I didn't think he had it in him!" If Clary had thought having this conversation with her father was embarrassing, having it with her husband's sister turned out to be a million times worse. "Have you even seen him naked?" She takes Clary's silence as a negative answer. "Has he seen _you_ naked?!" Clary's heart races again, her throat closing in on her as she pictures those enchanted bars in front of her, encasing her in literal hell. She'd been coated in bruises and blood and ichor, bones visible through her skin. That hardly counted as seeing her naked. But is he now repulsed by her? Does the sight of her make him want to vomit? Does he wish she had bigger boobs like that fairy she used to see him with? Insecurities wrap around her like a noose. "I'll take that as a no, too. Angel, Clarissa, you are no fun."

"You'd probably be a prude if you'd been in hell, too," she snaps. Instead of firing back, Isabelle's dark eyes soften minutely.

"I've seen a lot of shit in my time, working in the infirmary for our wounded. I can't even begin to understand what you've gone through." Clary likes that Isabelle doesn't pretend to know how she's feeling, that she doesn't coat over it with a layer of glitter. "I just know that if you let it weigh you down, Valentine wins. If you let him have a hold over your mind, he controls the most precious things you have—your dreams, your desires, your future. Valentine has free reign to it all so long as you let him."

"I can't just forget, Isabelle—"

"No, I'm not saying to forget. Hell, if anything, channel that rage into killing the bastard. What I'm saying is, learn to accept it. Learn to love yourself again. Learn to let yourself be loved again." Clary can't even meet her own eyes in the mirror as she works through the last knots. "Now if you'll let me, I've been dying to get my makeup brushes on that face of yours."

It's only then Clary sees Isabelle has brought a black, sequined bag of torture instruments. But Clary's mind is too weighed down by all these thoughts to protest as Isabelle spins her in the chair. She waits in silence as Isabelle traces lines onto her cheeks and forehead. She barely notices the lines being drawn on her skin or the brushes against her cheeks.

 _Learn to love yourself_ _again_. Does she love herself? She doesn't hate the thought of herself; she's merely indifferent. Had this changed after her abduction, or has this been a reoccurring feeling? Does Valentine control her only because she lets him?

Does Jace love her?

"Clary!" the man in question's voice cuts through the thick fog in her mind, pulling her back to the present as Isabelle collects her makeup in the bag. "What have you been doing to her, Isabelle?" he asks, crossing his arms as he leans against the doorframe, looking her up and down. She can't tell if her heart is fluttering at the appreciative look in his eyes or at the memory that he's seen her undressed.

"You're welcome," his sister hisses, brushing past him after tossing Clary a wink over her shoulder. A blush claws its way onto Clary's cheeks even as she tries to fight the crimson. It makes Jace smile as he pushes off, producing a steaming cup from behind his back. All nervous emotions are forgotten as she wraps her hand around it, comforted by its strong aroma.

Jace's hand is on the back of his neck. "I brought you some breakfast, too. I thought you might be hungry." He ushers her to the bedroom where a stack of pancakes teeters beside the bed. Clary wastes no time drenching them in syrup and stuffing them into her mouth, prompted by her rumbling stomach. Jace smiles, settling onto the bed with his fingers laced behind his head.

"Jace?" she asks in a small voice as she finishes eating. His head turns in her direction, his face soft. "Are you…disgusted by me?" His eyes widen fractionally, and he sits up.

"You really are a silly girl." This is not the response she'd been expecting, so she stammers for words as Jace's hand cups her face. "Why would you think such a thing?"

All she can focus on is how warm his skin is against hers and how his hands can be so rough but so gentle at the same time. Words fall from her, brainless, as she stumbles over herself to get them out. "It's just that…the last time you've seen me…undressed…is when I was bloody and beaten…and that's probably how you think of me now—" His lips are even softer as the land against her mouth, his hand sliding around into the curls at the nape of her neck to tilt her face into his.

"Clary, you are _all_ I think about now," he tells her as he breaks away. "I worry myself sick thinking about you alone. I flare up with jealousy when I hear other people talking about you. I fill with excitement when I'm coming home to you." He shakes his head, kissing her nose lightly. "You are the most beautiful girl I've ever known. It's the sappiest line in the book, but it's true when it comes to you."

"So you _are_ …attracted to me?"

"Hell yes," he responds without missing a beat. "I'm so attracted to you that sometimes it physically hurts."

"Oh," is all she can squeak out. A finger under her chin draws her attention back to him.

"But I want you to heal. I want you to take all the time you need to be in a good place again. I—" Her breath hitches as he stops himself. She can tell he fears he'll frighten her, so instead he presses his mouth lightly against hers.

He sits there holding her hand until she's finished her breakfast. Maia collects her for a dress fitting as Jace has to return to training, skillful planning on his part. "I meant what I said, Clary." His words are sincere as the door closes between them.

X.O.X.O.X

The hot water hits his sore muscles, relieving their strain as he let the spray run down the contours of his chest. Rogue demons had been entering Idris's atmosphere steadily since Clary's capture, endless hordes needing to be dealt with daily. Jace feels no need to sacrifice his men's strength and vitality on such trivial assaults, and instead takes the squadrons on single-handedly, only assigning Alec or Sebastian to post when he's training or sleeping.

It's become a great release for his growing sexual frustration, especially with his and Clary's recent conversation about his desires. It's difficult to believe she can't see the way he looks at her, the way his pants tighten when her smile lands on his. "Jace!" he can hear her calling now, and he has to crank the handle to cold, thinking of demon ichor and piles of dirt as to not incriminate himself. The door pushes open, and he can feel the cold air rushing into the room, aiding in his situation. "I just wanted to make sure it was you."

"It's me." He tells her. He can hear her plop onto the floor and can't help but smile to himself, remembering their first night together, the night that she unknowingly claimed his body, mind, and soul. He loves the way she flushes bright pink whenever he mentions the way she stripped for him, or how she sprinted to the bathroom to upheave her dinner and liquor, but it's one of his most precious memories. It started this. "How was your day?" he asks gently, allowing the water to heat up a little as he massages soap into his hair.

She groans. "Awful. Isabelle and Maia tag-team babysitting shifts, and when either one of those girls are in the room, I can't hear myself think!" Jace chuckles, rising on his toes to peer at her over the curtain. She's sitting with her knees pulled to her chest, tucking her chin against them as she flicks through her phone. She's looking at pictures, he realizes. One's she has taken of her with all of her friends. He can't help but feel pleased that he appears significantly more than Simon and about equally with Isabelle. "What did you do today?" He drops back down and washes the suds from his hair.

"Trained my Fourteens. Slayed some demons. Slayed in general." She snorts unattractively, but Jace finds himself thinking it's incredibly endearing.

"Okay, Beyonce."

"I'm surprised you know who that is." Her hand slaps against the curtain, nearly hitting his leg.

"I'm a princess, Jace. I'm not stupid."

"Of course, you're not, princess." He can imagine her sticking her tongue out in his direction as he washes his body, the soap running trails down the crevices of his muscles. "How are your cuts?"

"They're healed, Jace. You know that." Her voice sounds like she wants to respond with hostility, but she's physically refraining herself.

"They were a little pink last time I saw them," he answers, surprised by the concern in his words. He's never been the nurturing type, but the idea of Clary in pain has him putting on a fucking apron and baking cookies.

"Would you like to check again?" she asks cheekily, poking her head in through the curtain. Jace stiffens, the cold air rushing straing to his member as she bites her lip.

"Is that a trick question?" It comes out huskier than he'd intended, and she laughs at his expression. The curtain separates them once again as Clary drops it from her grip.

"I believe that is the first time I've ever frustrated you, Jace Herondale," she calls from over her shoulder as she breezes from the room, leaving Jace to catch his breath.

If only she knew.

X.O.X.O.X

When Jace returns that night, Clary has her feet curled beneath her on the sofa, a book propped in her hands. She's to entranced in whatever story is playing out before her eyes to hear him rummaging through the refrigerator, digging out leftovers from last night's dinner. It's later than usual, as one of his Twelves had been nervous about his impending marking, worried his blood might reject him and that he'd become forsaken.

Those are always difficult conversations to have, as one never knows if the Shadowhunter will take to the rune. It's uncommon that a purebred one denies his blood, especially when starting with something as simple as the voyance rune, but there are no certainties.

"Hey, princess," Jace greets, placing his mushu pork on his lap and smiling at her through a mouthful of food.

"How did I get so lucky," she deadpans, returning to her book. There's a strange stiffness in her posture, almost like she's uncomfortable beside him. She hasn't really opened up to him since he'd found her in that cell. He'd seen her wounds. He'd held her as she confessed her heritage like it was a sin. She'd never really trusted him with anything else though, and rightfully so. He's done nothing but break her heart and her trust. Still, he wants to be the one she confides in, the one she entrusts with her darkest memories, the one she needs to build her back up.

So he shifts until he's a comfortable distance away from her, watching her muscles relax automatically, almost like it's an autonomous reaction to his proximity. "Will you tell me what's wrong, Clary?" He's never been good with words in these situations. Emotions have always made him uncomfortable, but he's trying. He's trying to be better, to be the husband a woman like Clary deserves.

She slams her book down like she'd been waiting all night for him to ask her that, her unhinged green eyes flashing to his. "I have issues, Jace." He bites back against his sarcastic reply, keeping his face expressionless as he waits in silence for her next words. "How can I ever be a good Shadowhunter when I'm so uncoordinated that I trip when I'm sitting?" Jace sputters for a response, but as he's grappling for words, Clary charges forward. "I'm clumsy. I'm hot-tempered. I'm too shy. I'm too outspoken. And I can't bear to be touched by any man—"

"Now we're getting somewhere," Jace interjects before she can continue listing trivial things she really doesn't believe as a means to get the truth out there.

"I didn't want you to catch that one." She shies into her corner of the couch, refusing to meet his eyes.

"I'm a good listener." She rolls her eyes, muttering something about how he'd interrupted her. "Why can't you be touched by a man?" She shrugs, but Jace makes a noise that says he isn't having it.

"I…I'm terrified." Jace heart crumbles in his chest. All this time he'd thought his tight embraces were helping her through her pain. Have they just been hurting her more? Scaring her?

"Why?" She shrugs again. "You like to snuggle at night. You let me hold your hand." As if to prove his point, he reaches out, and she entwines her fingers through his. He breathes a mental sigh of relief, thankful that his touch hasn't been destroying her all while she suffers in silence. "If you don't want me to touch you, princess, I need you to tell me." She remains silent. "I won't be mad at you, Clary. I know it's not meant to hurt me."

"No…I like this touch. It's not…sexual." Jace has to restrain his hand from clenching into a fist. He'd tried to prevent himself from thinking the worst had happened to her in that dungeon, to fool himself into believing that it had been limited to flesh wounds. But the truth is that her wounds run deeper than that, ones that can't be healed with irazes and potions. These take nothing but time, and sometimes, they never go away.

"Clary, please…tell me what happened to you in Lake Lyn. I want to help you."

"I…I want to Jace. I just…I don't want you to see me differently. I don't want you to judge me." Jace shakes his head feverishly, squeezing her hand reassuringly.

"Believe me when I say this, princess. Nothing could stop me from looking at you like you're the bravest, most beautiful woman in the universe."

A vibrant blush tinges her cheeks as she reaches up to tug on a lock of her hair, yielding to his request. "Jonathon…he and Valentine had a plan. He said that I had to join them in the dark…that the only way for me to do that was for them to remove my heavenly light." She swallows hard, the words coming out slowly, broken up by her throat closing up, like her own body is protesting that she's revealing her secrets.

Jace sits, patiently waiting, though his blood is boiling, preparing to rip these men limb-from-limb for merely touching a curl on her head. "Jonathon wanted to force me to sin. He whipped me. He bashed my head against the wall until I couldn't see. He ripped my dress of, and he tried to…tried to…" Tears fall in uninhibited streams down her cheeks, and Jace reaches out to her, tucking her into his side as she cries into his gear, the salt of her tears mixing with the salt of his sweat. She doesn't mind though as he rubs her back comfortingly, letting her hiccup and scream until it nearly puts her to sleep. "He didn't succeed, though, Jace," she murmurs as she lays her head in her lap, looking up at him with sleepy, red eyes. "You saved me." He combs his fingers through her hair. "I like being touched by you, Jace," she sleepily admits. "In all ways. You're my hero. My guardian angel." Jace can't tell if she's awake or asleep when she utters those words, but he kisses her forehead all the same, hoping he's man enough to sew her broken pieces back together.

X.O.X.O.X

His blades are heavy in his hands today as a bead of sweat slides down his cheeks like the teardrops he's never cried. His eyes are narrowed into slits, his breaths quiet with steady focus. There's no hesitation in his lithe strikes, no recoil from the pain blossoming in his fists as he ditches his weapons for hand-to-hand combat. He welcomes the feeling of his nerves begging him to stop, to release them from the agony he's pushing onto them.

It makes him feel _alive_. Pain and fear—they wake him up, propel him forward with more vigor and aggression than before. He bares all these scars, refuses healing wounds because he's addicted to the ache in his bones, the searing pain that ripples through opened wounds.

He catches a fist as it flies at his left cheek, twirling the wrist so his attacker's back is pressed against his chest, his bicep securely fitted around her neck. "Clary," he breaths, releasing the small woman before him, his eyes flickering over her fragile and healing body. "What are you doing here?" She surprises him by producing his discarded blade, pressing the burning tip against his naked chest.

"I want to train." His eyes harden at her determined expression.

"Absolutely not." She digs the weapon deeper into his breastbone, a droplet of blood turning it crimson.

"Wrong answer." Jace sighs, wrapping his hand around the blade and using the other to push her grip away from it, flipping the hilt into his other palm. "Come on, Jace. You were poisoned, too."

"Yeah, but Valentine turned you to _ribbons_ , Clary." He catches her minute flinch at his words and softens. "You need rest to build your strength back." He talks the blade down and tucks it into his waistband, reaching out for her. She doesn't shy away as he takes her hand, her eyes refusing to meet his. "Can I check how you're healing?"

She shrugs, but doesn't pull back as his hand skims the flesh at her hip. He smooths his whole palm across it, using it to lift her tank top up. The angry red lines have faded to pink, no longer raised but level with the rest of her skin.

It's then he hears her catching breath, her darkening emerald eyes trailing his motions as he splays his palm across her back. Her skin is warm against his hand as his gaze locks onto hers. His control is wearing thin as he starts to walk her backward, only stopping when they reach the wall.

"Jace," she breathes, her chest heaving into his. It's supposed to sound like a warning, but it comes out as more of a plea. His molten eyes are more open than she's ever seen them, scrutinizing her reaction as he smooths his hand across her hip, taking her tank top with it and pressing their bodies together. She feels so small, like a housecat next to the blazing glory of a lion, but the look in Jace's eyes makes her feel just as dangerous, just as beautiful.

He leans in then, his lips butterflying along her collarbone, up her neck in the gentlest of kisses. He sweeps them over her cheekbones and down her nose before finally settling against her lips. It's too fast and too slow all at once as she knots her fingers through his loose curls, curling her body up into him so every inch of him touches every inch of her.

A noise emanates from the back of his throat, landing in her mouth as she opens it to him. One hand is against her cheek, his rough thumb moving across her skin while the other wraps wholly around her waist, hitching her against him. The training room melts away as he presses her into the wall. Her legs encircle his waist, his arms flexing as he holds her in position. His golden eyes flicker between hers, looking at her as if she is the most precious gemstone in all the universe, his hand shaking as it skims down her ribs to join the other one behind her. "Don't drop me."

"Trust me," he whispers huskily, "I won't." She pulls their mouths together then, all her fears falling away as Jace hands roam her arms, his lips rough against her mouth. His fingers brush the curve of her backside, gripping it to hoist her higher.

She winces then, some sore muscle jarred with the motion, and everything stops. Her feet are planted firmly on the ground, and Jace is three feet away from her, looking at the ground with swollen lips and fingers tangled into his hair. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have gotten carried away." Before she can tell him it's alright, he's pushing through the door, leaving her to catch her breath.

X.O.X.O.X

Clary's staring out the window at the ocean shore when Jace returns that night, longingly it seems as he drops his weapons. "Let's go to our cabin," he suggests, and she whirls in his direction, startled by his sudden appearance. The way her eyes light up when she sees him has him melting, and the brilliant smile breaking out across her face has him reaching for her hand and leading her to the Giant Turtle.

It doesn't take long for him to cut the engine at the edge of the water, casting a wild-eyed glance at his wife before leaping from the machine. Jace's feet hit the forest floor first, his long, booted strides easily overpowering her short ones. "Last one to the house loses!" he bellows over his shoulder, his carefree voice startling a few animals in the shrubbery.

"Jace!" she laughs, watching the small creatures scurry away from the guffawing man. His curls blow in the wind behind him, much longer than the slightly tousled locks he donned on their wedding day. They now fall past his ears, just enough for her to pull them into a small band at the nape of his neck, much to his dismay. _Ponytails are not my style, Clary_ , he protested, shaking out his beloved strands the way he does after showers, splashing droplets of water all over the room. "You're a cheater," she accuses playfully when she finally breezes through the door, kicking it shut behind her.

He merely shrugs, the weapons on his belt clanking as he drops it to the ground. He's in full gear, the black bringing out the excitement in his eyes. A smile tugs at the edges of his lips as he tangles their fingers together. "Being better is not considered cheating." She rolls her eyes, hitting at the skirt of her dress to rid it of any dirt she picked up on her sprint through the woods.

The dying light of day filters through the freshly cleaned windows, casting warm golden shadows on the creaky floorboards. Jace releases her hand to start a fire, the evening chill already seeping in through the cracks. Clary finds herself stretching out in the sunlight, feeling oddly like a housecat as Jace tucks a curl behind her ear.

"Are you afraid?" she asks quietly as his lips navigate the skin of her neck, butterflying open-mouthed kisses along her hairline. She can't look at him, dressed for the oncoming battle, fresh from training with this squadron. His arms loop around her waist, and he pulls them onto the bed, settling her in his lap.

"Yes," he whispers finally, using his index finger to pull her gaze to his. She can see it there, etched across his entire face. Fear is an emotion she'd never associated with Jace, but his golden eyes are haunted, hollow inside the dark amber rim. His mouth has settled into a soft frown, making her yearn for his crooked smile to return.

"Why?" It's a loaded question, one that the old Jace would have never answered. By admitting his fears, he reveals a weakness. His gaze flickers between her eyes, before dropping to the space between them. His tongue appears to wet his lips, an internal struggle waging within him.

"Because before...," he sighs, declaring defeat with himself, "I didn't have anything to lose." Her heart leaps into her throat as his hand smooths across her lower back, pressing them closer together. It hammers there, offbeat in comparison to the slow, steady thump it usually is. She stammers for words, but none come to her, causing her to ungracefully stutter a few incoherent sounds. It pulls a laugh from Jace, but she's unsatisfied.

Instead of talking, she finds his eyes, her hands slipping under his jacket and pushing it off his shoulders. He doesn't drop her gaze as her hands flatten against his abdomen, lifting the hem of his t-shirt up his chest. She pulls it over his head, dropping it to the floor with his discarded coat, paying no mind to it as her hands travel the expanse of skin before her.

She's seen Jace's chest an innumerable amount of times. He was always training shirtless, always leaving the bathroom with a towel slung low on his hips, but the atmosphere of this is different. She can really _see_ it, each rune, each scar creating the story of his life. His past is mapped out before her, a tangible history for her to gently drag her fingertips across, feeling each raised scar, each hard muscle. She doesn't need to look at it to understand what he's been through. His eyes bore into hers as she settles her hand over the empty spot above his heart.

"Tell me," she whispers, her whole body shaking. "Tell me that you want me, and I'll be yours completely." His big hand comes up to cover hers, stilling it as he presses it fully against his chest. His heart beats beneath her fingertips, strong and steady like a river flowing.

His voice comes out in a hoarse whisper when he finally breaks the silence. "I've never wanted anything more." His lips come down heavily on hers, their hands still pressed against his chest until he flips her over onto the bed. He rests on his forearms to avoid crushing her, the ends of his hair tickling her cheeks. "My wife." He breaks away to kiss her nose. "My beautiful wife."

The word makes her heart pound against her chest, begging to escape and be one with Jace's as he whispers it to her over and over again. Her fingers wind into his hair as he pulls their mouths back together. Her chest presses into his with each breath, his heat soaking through to her as he cradles her against him.

He finally pulls away, reaching into the back of his pants to retrieve his stele. He flips them over so that she's straddling his legs before resting it in her hands. The thin metal tube is cold, but the idea of what's about to come has her buzzing with electricity. He cups his hands behind his head, resting back as she hovers over him.

Pulling her lip between her teeth, she presses the tip delicately to his skin, getting lost in the inky swirls it leaves behind. Jace doesn't flinch, doesn't cry out as she traces one of the most intimate runes against his chest, right beside his parabatai rune. When she finishes, she puts her lips against the center, feeling Jace shudder beneath her.

Rocking back, she admires her work, Jace's eyes trailing her movements until he's had enough, flipping them over so he's above her now. "Is this okay?" he asks gently as his warm fingers brush the ties of her dress. Fighting the urge to scream _hell yes_ , she merely nods, arching her back as he expertly undoes them. His fingers burn hot trails down her sides as he slips it from her, leaving her before him in a pair of white lace panties and a matching bra.

A blush creeps to her cheeks on its own accord, and Jace's places kisses against her heated flesh. "You are beautiful, Clarissa Herondale. I'm so lucky to have you as my wife." His voice is deep and smooth like molasses, spreading warmth through her slowly as his fingers brush against the clasp of her bra—a silent question.

She pulls his face down against hers, pouring all her pent-up feelings into the one kiss. All the confusion and anger and worry and joy seeping into it as she reaches behind and undoes the clasp herself, pulling the straps down her arms and casting it to the side.

It ends too quickly as Jace pulls away, taking up the stele in his left hand. He lays her gently back onto the bed, kissing a trail from the corner of her mouth to the top of her breast before lifting the stele. His right hand finds hers, looping their fingers together before he puts the tip to her naked flesh. She can't feel the pain when she's too enamored by the boy before her. Even the way he draws runes is graceful, with smooth, arching sweeps and calm concentration. A furrow forms between his brows as he works, finishing the last line with a kiss.

She can feel the connection immediately. A wave of overwhelming joy hits her, but it is not her own. This joy is warm and strong, foreign from the light, airy way she experiences happiness. Their hearts synchronize, their chests heaving into each other at the same time.

"You've just made me the happiest man alive," he tells her, hugging her to him and burying his face in her curls. She doesn't need to question the truth in this sentiment. She's living these emotions _through_ him, feeling everything he is, intensifying her own desires. Her naked breast responds to his warm flesh against it, her nipples pebbling at the intimate touch. She burrows her face into the crook of his neck, inhaling all that is Jace as he does the same to her hair. His fingers run up and down her back, touches as soft and light as feathers. "We don't have to go any further. You know that, right?"

She nods softly, but her mouth moves to suck at his pulse point, hoping to convey that she doesn't want to stop. A soft groan escapes his mouth as his hands slide around over her ribs, cupping her breasts as she arches into him. His thumb brushes over the fresh rune, caressing it almost lovingly as his mouth dips to capture hers.

He uses his leverage to push her gently onto her back, hovering above her once more as his hands begin massaging and tugging in the most delicious ways. The lust in his eyes is enough to draw a moan from her throat, the panty-dropping smirk on Jace's face enough to pull her to pieces.

Her hands fly to his gear, undoing the snaps until he's above her in a pair of boxer shorts. His eyes bore into hers as his lips descend on her breast, his tongue darting out to pull it into his mouth. Friction builds between her thighs as she throws her head back into the pillow, twisting her fingers into his curls to pull his face harder against her.

He releases her with a pop before giving her other side the same amount of attention. Instead of worrying what she should be doing, she arches into him, allowing herself to just _feel_ what he's doing to her, driving away her apprehensions.

His fingers skim down to the waistband of her panties, sliding over the fabric until he's just above where she wants him most, separated by only a piece of lace. "Please, Jace," she begs huskily, pressing her hips into his hand as his thumbs move slow circles against her.

"The things you do to me," he replies, sliding up her body to pull their lips together. She gasps into his mouth as he pushes one finger into her, waiting for her to move against him to begin pumping it in and out. His thumb continues to work against her, a knot forming in her stomach.

"Jace!" she says, panic flooding her voice as she feels ready to explode.

"Let it happen, love." She can feel the words against her lips, but all the noise is drowned out as the pressure in her stomach releases, stars shooting out behind her eyes as she floats from her high.

When her eyelids flutter back open, Jace is above her, a satisfied smirk on his face. Wanting nothing more than to wipe it from his face, she reaches blindly into his boxers, grabbing him and pumping slowly up and down. The expression falls from his face as his eyes roll back into his head.

She pulls the elastic band down his legs, watching him kick it the rest of the way until his boxers are on the floor. Hooking his thumbs through her panties, he kisses her cheeks. "Are you sure?" She nods, her eyes closed as he rids her of the last scrap of clothing. He uses his knee to nudge her legs apart, settling himself between her.

"Make me yours," she tells him, opening herself wholly to a man she swore to never even kiss. But to her surprise, he shakes his head.

"You've made me yours," he tells her, kissing her tenderly as he teases her entrance. He doesn't have to tell her it will hurt because she already knows. But she grits her teeth anyway as searing pain rips through her. Jace kisses the tears slipping from her eyes as he freezes, allowing her to adjust. When she nods, he continues forward. And soon, she's asking him for more. Begging him to go deeper and faster.

Sweat forms on their bodies, causing them to slide together frictionless as he makes love to her over and over again, sending them over the cliffs of ecstasy as many times as their bodies will allow before pulling the quilts over their exhausted frames. Cocooned in blankets and his arms, she feels indestructible. Jace whispers sweet nothings into her curls, and when he thinks she's asleep, he tells her something that makes her heart sing.

"I love you."

X.O.X.O.X

 _Meanwhile in another dimension…_

A man with yellowing teeth and an embarrassingly large bald spot enters Valentine's study, the heavy wooden door falling shut with finality.

Valentine's fist slams into the desk, a splintering crack shooting down the center as he glares down his men. The man who's just entered starts a little bit at this display, while Valentine's army dutifully stands at attention, unfazed by the outburst. "What do you mean she escaped?!" he's asking them, his eyes solid black pits, a bead of sweat forming on his brow. His face is heated, seething through his teeth as none of the guards dare to step forward. "How is it that the only girl supposedly able to penetrate the barrier of Earth and Hell is able to free herself from the chains on the wall?"

"She is not the one we seek, master," the man interrupts in a small voice. He clears his throat when Valentine's feral eyes turn on him. "The one that saved her—the boy with golden eyes—he is the one from your prophecy. He is your enemy, Valentine—the only Shadowhunter strong enough to defeat you—"

There's a gurgling sound as Valentine separates the man's head from his shoulders, landing his blood-spattered scowl on the remaining men.

"Go get him."

* * *

 _Ayyy it happened! Also, h_ _old on to your pants, ladies and gents because if you could't tell...shit is about to go down._

 _All My Love_

 _~BallinBlonde21_


	19. The One Where Rocky Loses

_Sorry for the lack of updates! I've been so busy! I hope this long one makes up for it! Enjoy!_

* * *

 _The Shadow Wars_

 _Chapter 19: The One Where Rocky Loses_

* * *

 _Songs:_

 _Part 1: Wreak Havoc - Skylar Grey_

 _Part 2: Pieces - Rob Thomas_

 _Part 3: Brother - Kodaline_

 _Part 4: Dream - Imagine Dragons_

 _Part 5: Never Say Never - The Fray_

 _Part 6: Take Cover - All Time Low_

* * *

"I don't want to get up," Clary complains, throwing her arm over her eyes to shield them from the sun flooding in through the windows. Jace grumbles from beside her, pulling her tighter into his warm embrace. It's a moment of pure bliss, wrapped in pure love as Jace hums gently in her ear, making her giggle. "That tickles!" she yells as his fingers skim up her ribs. She pushes at his chest, trying to create distance between them, but Jace holds her with an iron grip, using his other hand to torture her. She loves the smile on his face, untroubled, peaceful. She's never seen that expression before, one full of unadulterated joy. It radiates like the sun, his chipped tooth a perfect imperfection. She squeals as she finally manages to kick herself free from the blankets.

She holds a pillow over her bare chest as a weak defense. He pursues her with raised palms, feigning surrender until she's backed into a corner. "Jace!" she laughs. "We really have to get going!" She can barely get out her words. "We're due for launch in an hour!" Jace is again being deployed to the frontlines, except this time, he refuses to leave Clary behind.

Finally, Jace yields, collecting their discarded clothing from around the cabin. His fresh rune stands out like a beacon on his chest, and she can't help but glance downward at hers, feeling Jace's rumbling laughter against her back as he once again puts his arms around her.

"My mark looks nice on you," he whispers in her ear, sending shivers down her spine. She twists in his arms, twining her fingers around his neck to pull his mouth down against hers. "But we really need to go." He shoves her clothes unceremoniously into her hands, leaving her to hop around and get dressed while he gathers their belongings. The Turtle is waiting where they'd abandoned it. It's funny how it seems to travel faster when in pursuit of a destination Clary has no desire to reach. She wishes she could just exist in this little bubble of happiness she and Jace had created yesterday.

Jace catches her sideways glance and smiles warmly at her. She can feel everything he feels, amplifying her own emotions until it's like she can't desipher which ones belong to who. It's intoxicating and amazing all at once. Jace parks the Turtle in the old garage and helps her down. Looping her arm through his, she allows him to lead her through the corridors. She even plays along as he swoops her up into his arms bridal-style, carrying her through the threshold.

"We're fully married Shadowhunters, now," he explains with a grin that splits his face. She'd never thought that settling down would have Jace Herondale so excited, but he can't be faking. His joy is crashing into her in heavy, rhythmic waves, almost like his body was last night. Maybe they could be a few minutes late…

"There's been a breach!" Sebastian yells as he bursts through their door, weighted down by weapons. He doesn't wait for Jace's command before sprinting off in the direction of the hangar. The joy stopped filling her as Jace shifted into war-mode, happiness turning to focus and adrenalin. He can't collect his weapons quickly enough, moving around the room like a golden sandstorm.

"Stay here, Clary. I mean it," he says when he's completed, resting a hand on her shoulder before rushing off after his men, his weapons like a bell tolling as it fades into the distance.

"Like hell I am," she hisses into the space where he'd previously been, strapping two blades across her back. She takes off after the sound of boot falls, horrified screams reaching her ears, seemingly coming from all directions. "Get to safety," she tells a few terrified mothers as they stumble along with their children, undoubtedly running from the battle. She unsheathes her swords, twirling them on her fingertips in anticipation. The yells are becoming louder, nearer with each passing step, her determination driving her forward with each steady beat of her heart.

The tunnel widens as she enters the hangar, the apparent location of the breech judging by the throngs of people and flashes of deadly weapons. Her soldiers are clothed in black leather, inked with runes as they fend off Valentine's army, clothed in the white robes of mourning. The skin of the vampires is like paper against their equally pasty uniforms, backed by werewolves laden with chain colors, gripped in the bony fingers of ancient warlocks. Valentine's sent his brainwashed prisoners, his unconscious army to do his bidding.

It's a horrific sight, as the black meshes with the white, looking like an old television screen from her position on the overhang. A clash rings out as she meets an attack from behind, her back pressed against the railing, her previous capture playing behind her eyelids. Shaking off her fears, she ducks the next swing, pretending she's just in the training room with Jace. Except she gains the upperhand easily, this lethargic vampire barely able to wield his sword. Surrender is not an option for these men, though, and she slits his throat, watching him tip over the edge and land on another below.

She doesn't wait to see if he rises. Sprinting down the stairs, she parries and attacks anyone threatening to oppose her, cutting her way to the center of the fight in a matter of seconds. That's where she find's Jace, weighted down by two blades as he takes the enemies out four at a time, intermittently throwing knives into the backs of those threatening his soldiers. He's like an avenging angel, all gold, swathed in black, delivering blow after blow with cold, calculated concentration. It's terrifyingly beautiful, and she momentarily wonders what people think when they're at the tip of his sword, as he transports them from one dimension to the next. Do they find calm in his molten eyes? Do they fear the unnatural lithe he possesses? Do they repent? Do they pray? "Damn it, Clary!" There's a dull thud as Jace removes the head of someone about to hack off her left arm. She looks away with a grimace, but effectively covers it. War is gruesome, and she can't let that distract her. "I told you to stay," Jace growls as they press their backs together, fighting in tandem, like on entity rather than two souls.

"I'm not your fucking dog, Jace." Her blade comes to a glaring halt in the leg of an attacker, and she uses her own as leverage to wrench it free with a sickening sound. Jace is winded, but not slowing as he cuts down the army before him. Shadowhunters and Downworlders defend Idris side-by-side as Valentine's army struggles to gain a foothold in the hangar. She grabs a flying knife out of the air, hurling it back at its owner, embedding it in the wolf's chest. "I will fight for my people."

Jace's fingers hook around her arm as he hauls her out of the way of an arcing sword, slicing through the shoulder of her attacker. "We fight together then. You will not die today." Clary finds it in herself to smile, but it's quickly wiped away when she plunges her sword into an enemy's chest, blood slickening her skin as she wrenches it free once more, only to plant it in another man's forehead. The bodies pile up around them, but it does little to deter the next ranks from challengine the duo.

"Jace!" Clary calls as red sparks fly from a warlock's fingertips to their left. Jace lashes out, severing both man's hands with one sweep, before Clary lands a kick in his chest, landing him atop his deceased brethren. Most of these people are fighting against their will for a cause they do not believe in, but Valentine's gained some hold over them, rendering them defensless to the darkness. The cost of war is high when you're up against an unwilling enemy, but Clary refuses those thoughts again as an arrow buries into the chest of an encroaching vampire. She nods to Alec, who's lurking on a beam above, watching the battle unfold below.

She finds Isabelle, the only other female in the battle, throwing an opposing Shadowhunter around with her whip, sparking blue as it slices through him. Magnus is holding a barrier between the hangar and the bunker. Simon is leveraging himself up the wall to join Alec, his bow strapped across his back. Clary launches a knife at a man in pursuit of him, sending the enemy to the floor. Maia is encircling rival wolves, her chocolate coat drenched with blood.

She finds her father, using his sword to fend off those trying to break through Magnus's spell, killing those dumb enough to threaten him. Except he doesn't see the sandy-blond wolf behind him, too focused on removing a vampire's head from his shoulders. "Dad!" Clary cries, the hilt of the knife leaving her hand the same moment the wolf launches. It implants itself in the wolf's left flank, but it's too late. The wolf's jaws are clamped around the king's left arm. Lucian, with all the strength he possesses, swings the sword in his right hand to cut the wolf's snout free of its face, plucking the jaw from his arm just as Magnus drags him behind the barrier. She watches him sway on his feet, covered in his own blood, before collapsing to the ground. "Dad!" she cries again, wrenching herself free from Jace, who's holding her back with one arm while fighting with the other.

Jace calls after her, but she can't hear him through the roaring in her ears as she rushes through Magnus's barrier. "Dad." The tears spill from her as she cradles his head in her lap, his breathing shallow and ragged. His soft eyes are closed, his tattered arm hanging limply.

"Clarissa, you need to run. Now!" As two men come to drag the king to a safe location, Magnus's barrier falters, allowing for a few rogues to slip through.

"I will not _run_ ," Clary hisses, gripping her seraph blade and calling it to life, the blue blaze blinding her enemies as she hacks through them in one sweep, rage fueling her fight, coursing through her in thick, poisonous waves. This anger rivals that of Kaelie's, except she can hone this one, use it to her advantage.

She growls as she emerges from Magnus's shield, not slowing as she knocks down Downworlders and Shadowhunters alike, not counting the lives she's taken as she joins Jace at the center again. Except he's stopped fighting, looking at her with a mixture of awe and terror as Valentine's men scramble to flee, their numbers dwindling in the princess's unrivaled rampage.

Amidst the chaos, a sharp cry rings out above the noise, both heads whipping toward its origin. Isabelle has collapsed to the floor, desperately cradling a body with floppy, dark hair and broken glasses.

Max.

X.O.X.O.X

Warm hands fall onto her shoulders, squeezing ever so slightly to relieve some of the tension growing in her muscles, the angry recoil of her body after the strain of a fight. Her eyes, flooded with tears she blinks against, drop to the comatose body stretched on the sterile white sheets of the infirmary, surrounded by howling loved ones and concentrated doctors and strangers distraught and fearful of the future. Cuts lace up the king's arms—claw marks—she recognizes as blood oozes from them like sludge, filling each crevice of his body as nurses work to bandage them. She can't help but think he looks so young and so old all at once, an eternity of war catching up with him as his slumber erases the lines of worry from his face. These are taken up by an exhausted warlock hovering in the corner, blue sparks dancing on his fingertips as he works to induce this healing coma, worriedly muttering to himself in dead tongues. Clary knows Jace can interpret the disjointed words by the way his eyes trail the man, narrowing every few phrases. She has no desire to listen to the turmoil outside this room, to hear what the future will bring, to strategize another plan, another battle, another war. All that matters in this moment is that Luke's chest still rises and falls with breath, albeit shallow and strangled.

What she wouldn't give to see his blue eyes flicker open, to hear him babble on and on about producing hers, to let herself fall into his arms and never tear herself away. What can she do when there's no one to blame but herself? Her dress is in tatters, her bare feet slicked with blood, leaving a crimson trail wherever her listless body drifts. She can't seem to tear her gaze away from the puncture wounds on her father's body. The perfect bite mark pulsates with its own heartbeat, forcing the lycanthrope virus into his veins, altering the very core of his DNA. If he survives, he will not be the same.

"Magnus says he'll be like this for the next few hours," Jace says lowly in her ear. She hadn't even noticed him exchanging words with the warlock, who's risen from his squat in the corner and is dabbing at his smudged makeup with a damp washcloth. "You need to rest." He doesn't phrase it like a suggestion as he encloses her hand in his, breaking the infinite stare she'd set on the man in front of her. She wants to plant her heals and refuse to be dragged from this room, to shake her head and scream at the top of her lungs until the noise wakes even Luke.

But she knows he's right. She wreaks of death and destruction, miles of cut and puckered skin visible through the claw marks raking down the sides of her dress. Jace is as much in shambles as she is, with his golden hair running red at the ends and a crusted scratch cutting from his eyebrow to his jaw. His body is stiff as he lifts his shirt and pulls it down over her head, covering her wounds and skin. Purple bruises blossom across his ribs and down his spine. His lip is split and swollen, but his own pain seems not to be one of his concerns.

He unlocks their door and ushers her inside, sliding the deadbolt home once they're in the mudroom. "No more fighting tonight," he whispers lowly, like even the mere thought of another battle sends an ache through his shattered bones. Her warrior, once so hell bent on destroying their enemies, draining each of them until the last drop of blood falls, now unstraps his weapons, discarding them haphazardly onto the floor. His hands are shaking, and she can see the despair in his eyes. He feels he's failed his family, his king. She thinks of Max, rushed away by a warlock much stronger than Magnus, one who'd trained him long ago, Ragnor Fell. No news had come yet.

"Luke is alive," she tells him as she wets a washcloth in the kitchen sink, raising it gingerly to his face to clean the blood from his cut. Jace cups her hand against his face, leaning his cheek into her touch and letting his eyes fall shut. "You've not disappointed him."

"For now," his voice is still deep, rich and slow like molasses. "I worry that I've let you down." Her eyes widen fractionally in surprise as he leans in and kisses her tenderly. His mouth tastes of rust and sweat, but also of frustration and eternal love.

"I've never been a damsel in distress, Jace Herondale." He laughs softly, his thumb running across her cheekbone.

"I know." His eyes are distant, as if lost in some galaxy lightyears away while he's standing right before her.

"We better clean up," Clary says a little breathlessly, uncomfortable with what his awed gaze does to her body. His nod is stiff but his expression is warm as they lean into each other for support, dragging their aching souls up the seemingly endless flight of stairs to the bathroom they share. Jace turns on the shower as Clary extracts herself from the destroyed clothing, discarding it in a pile of blood and sweat on their white tiled floor.

Jace's eyes drink her in, not lustfully but full of love and concern. She slips into the warm stream of water as Jace undoes the snaps of his jeans, following behind and closing the glass door behind himself, trapping them with the steam.

His fingers tangle into her curls, massaging shampoo through the blood-caked tendrils as the water turns pink down the drain. The beads of water beating against her back do little to soothe the bruising in her muscles, but Jace's strong and steady hands find her comfort as they work the soap down her body. She can see the turmoil in his gaze as he accesses the claw marks down her abdomen, as his fingers drift softly over every bruise. He uses one hand to wash his own body while the other holds her close, like he needs her there to stay grounded in reality, like without her skin against his, he might get lost inside his own mind.

No words are exchanged as Jace wraps her in a towel, keeping her tucked against his hip as he leads them to the bed. Her legs give out, and she sits on the mattress, watching with lagging eyes as he rifles for his stele. "Let me heal you." It's a soft request, and she gives no protest as his hand on her shoulder pushes her back onto the bed. The cut on his face has caused one of his eyes to swell, but he's still unearthly beautiful as he kneels over her, his towel slung loosely on his hips as he strips her of hers.

His hands are cool against her flushed skin as he tucks a curl behind her ear, drawing trails of iratzes over her wounds. One hand settles at her hip when he finishes, the other running lightly up and down her side. Her breathing is erratic, her mind on overdrive as Jace's stele falls from the bed, rolling to a stop by the door.

She wants to heal him, too, but her mind can think of little else as Jace's hand cups her face, his lips descending at an agonizingly slow pace. He's never allowed it before. His wounds are significant to him, each telling stories of victory or loss. He wears them with both pride and shame, never erasing them for ease.

"Let me heal _you_ ," she finds it in herself to say. Jace's trust for her expands with the ends of the universe, but his eyes flicker uncertainly. Irazes make him feel weak. If he can't bare the pain of his wounds, he doesn't deserve the title of a warrior. "Please." The word punctuates the silence, and she can see him yielding as she slips from beneath him, the cold air kissing her naked skin as she fumbles for the stele.

He's on his back when she turns around, his arms folded over his chest and his eyes closed. He's inked with so many marks, but his marriage rune stands out the most. So much of his skin is marked with scars and fresh wounds, but the patch she claimed as her own, is smooth, only broken by the swirling lines of her love. She rests her hand over it, feeling her own heat up against her breast. A blush creeps over her entire body at the memory of that night, and without even opening his eyes, Jace can sense her embarrassment, a small smirk tugging at the side of his mouth.

She gnaws on her lip, touching the stele to his injured face. Once it stars moving, it doesn't stop, covering every injury with the familiar pattern. She watches in quiet awe as both the rune and the cut fade into oblivion, leaving behind perfectly healed skin. Even as his cuts disappear, the stele doesn't stop moving in her hand, seeking to cover the only empty patch of skin against his left hip. An image flashes in her mind, begging to be etched onto his body as she obliges.

"What does it mean?" he asks, his eyebrows lifted with curiosity as she finally pulls the stele from his body.

"Passion." The word bubbles up her throat without even reaching her brain first, like her hands are thinking for themselves. Her fingers find purchase in his wet hair, pulling their mouths together as Jace topples on top of her. "Make me forget, Jace," she whispers with hot breath, their chests heaving into one another as his golden eyes flicker between two of hers. "Show me that there's love in the world."

Sadness softens his face much like sleep does. The deep creases of worry have disappeared, leaving behind only golden skin. But where sleep finds him peace, sadness fills his eyes with grief, melting the golden orbs to their crystal depths. His eyes have the power to move her to tears in her happiest moments, to drag laughter from her angered and inflamed lungs, to make her collapse onto the bed and waiting anxiously as his body stretches out above her.

He runs his nose along the length of hers, his eyelashes tickling her face as her own eyes fall shut. "You're all I have," he tells her softly, slipping one arm beneath her back so space is nonexistent between them. "All my love is for you." She runs her hand across his healed lip, blinking slowly up at him. Jace has told her it's against his nature to give any part of himself to someone. He's had those he loved violently ripped away from him, right before his eyes. His love is not something easily attained, not something he just throws around. There's no exaggeration when he tells her it's all for her, no lie or joke.

Her fingers run along the map of his skin before working at the knot in his towel. He drinks her in, making no move to pull her close, no move to pull away. He just blinks slowly, almost calmly as she strips him of their only barrier, artificial moonlight sending silver shadows across his face. He's beautiful in his contrasts. The mystic gold he radiates in the morning light is mysteriously shrouded by the moon, replaced with a furtive coolness that only serves to set him farther from her realm of existence. The scars and tattoos tearing across his skin exist only to enhance his beauty, his hard muscles contracting for the gentlest of caresses.

They stare at each other as the world dissolves. No longer are they tending to the wounded and counting the dead. No longer are they dripping in blood that is both their own and not. No longer do the clashes of metal against metal ring out, broken up by the feral snarls of lycanthropes bursting into the fray. They are just two humans lost in each other, green melting into gold until the universe can't decide where one soul ends and the other begins.

She tugs her lip between her teeth, her fingers resting gently against the dimples in his back as he flexes, lowering himself onto his forearms above her. His skin is the same temperature as hers, but it ignites fire everywhere it touches. Water beads down her forehead from the strands of his wet hair hanging over her, a slow smile stretching across his face as she opens herself to him, to the kisses he butterflies along her collarbone, up her neck, over her cheeks.

His lips take hers then as he slowly unites them, her heels hooking around his waist as he moves to her commands. She can almost get lost in the fluidity of his muscles, the way they flex and relax with each thrust, but her sight is cut off as she drops her head back against the pillows, leaving her chest exposed to the attack of Jace's lips.

He's turned almost feral in his motions, pouring all the pent up anger and frustration of war into this moment, channeling it into passion and utter savage abandon. All Clary can do is tighten her thighs around him and stifle her moans with her fist. "Let me hear you," Jace commands huskily after a moment, tugging her hand down to her side. She has to tilt her head upward to see him, looking down with a hooded gaze, not slowing his strokes as she releases a long, pleasured sound. Her nails dig into his back, enough to draw blood as he grips her hip roughly, using it as leverage to propel himself forward faster, deeper.

"Jace," she squeaks, her body not yielding to his ministrations but meeting him thrust for thrust. She can see the love in his eyes as hers fall shut, her head sinking into the pillows and her body hugging to him for dear life as she plunges from the clouds, infinity seeming to stretch before her as Jace collapses into her, panting from his own high. His fingers trace soft lines along her spine, and in this moment, they exist in a state of pure bliss, untroubled by the turmoil chaos outside these four walls.

"Sleep now, love," Jace whispers slowly in her ear, drawing the quilts over their quivering bodies and humming softly until the blackness fades and her world is filled with light.

X.O.X.O.X

The moonlight filters in through the opened blinds, setting the white sheet clutched to her naked breast aglow, like a beacon calling soldiers home from the darkest depths of space. Yet as she sits up, the spot beside her on the bed long turned cold, she knows that even the brightest light couldn't guide her warrior home. So often her mind leaps to metaphors comparing him to the blazing sun, his golden eyes cutting holes through the darkness, setting every nerve end on fire. His silken curls so often resembled the life-giving star millions of miles away, sliding smoothly between her fingertips. Now, it's like all the life has drained from even him, his expression sunken, defeated.

His skin is blue in his reflection, each motion slow and deliberate as she traces his inky tattoos up his arm to where it hovers above his head, a pair of scissors propped between his opened fingers. The blades hover around one lock of hair, a sliver from severing it completely. There's a ghost in his eyes, a darkness in that brilliant molten gaze. She can see him fragmenting like the mirror itself is broken, cutting him into pieces as his eyes bore into that one curl. His hands are quivering uncontrollably, nearly silent curse words falling from his lips in place of tears.

It's a shattered kind of beautiful—his emotions working their way to the surface in the quiet moments he thinks she can't see. Because he feels that he must be strong for her, to be steady for her, to be impenetrable for her. His wedding band glints on his finger as he drops the scissors with a clatter, his head snapping around to see her watching him, his eyes shimmering with unshed tears. He clenches them shut, refusing to let her in, to let her see weakness.

"He's dead." He doesn't say it to her, but rather the wall as he clenches and unclenches his jaw, the muscle in his face jumping as his eyes refuse to find focus. There's an adamant refusal to show his devastation, to share his grief. Iron bars are slowly planting themselves around his heart, replacing the stone walls she'd only just crumbled.

"Please," she whispers, drawing the quilts with her as she rises, following the pale path of moonlight to where he stands. "Don't shut yourself off from me. Don't build your walls." She sees it then. The first tear slips down the crevice of his nose, landing loudly against the wooden dresser.

"I have to…I have to…" he pushes each word out with a gust of air, choking on his own breaths as his curls settle in his face, only to be pulled impatiently from his eyes.

"Sit," she breathes, pushing him gently onto the edge of the bed and taking up the scissors. They feel heavy in her hands, foreign even, but Jace doesn't have it in him to protest as she smooths the first lock of hair, watching it fall wistfully to the ground like a lost secret, a lost part of himself. Soon, a golden pile forms on the floor. This man who so often made men stronger than she'd ever be cower in his presence, is now depending completely on her.

She traces the red runes of mourning up his arms, over his collarbones, resting one palm across his marriage rune for both stability and comfort. "I can't lose you, too," he whispers when she's completed, her eyes falling into his shimmering ones.

She runs her thumb along his cheek, smiling sadly as his gaze flickers between her pupils. "I'm not going anywhere." She withholds the cringe as her time with Valentine demands to be seen, leaping to the forefront of her mind. She flinches though when the door bursts open, her heart leaping into her throat when she sees two armed guards standing in the thresholds. She waits for them to open their stoic mouths, to shout that the king is dead and that havoc has destroyed their planet. "You are the enacting king," they tell Jace instead, ignoring the princess completely as she clutches the blanket beneath her chin. Any hint of devastation on Jace's face evaporated the moment the door flew open, replaced with cold-hard determination and power. "We have a war to fight," they add before closing the door behind them. Jace scrubs his hand down his face, turning those broken but healing eyes on her. He's lost so much, but he's a fighter. In the face of adversity, he always pushes harder.

X.O.X.O.X

She scans the people seated before her, scratching fiercely at the notepads propped before them, hanging onto Jace's every word as if it could be his last. With the week they're having, it isn't too farfetched to make such an assumption. They cling to what he's saying, and how can she blame them? He's a natural leader, sitting atop the throne with the ease and strength of a lion, discussing the next steps. They've only just rebuilt the square from her capture. Now, they must mourn their dead, repair damaged homes, and wash the blood from the streets. "No more soldiers will be sent to die. Not today." His expression is somber because that's what this war has become—a suicide mission. And all for what? To protect _her_? Valentine may seek to do harm, but he's only targeting Idris because this is where she calls home, where she chooses to rest her head.

Only four hours ago, when the sun was barely cresting the horizon, she lay in Jace's embrace, swathed in his warm quilts with her feet tucked securely between his legs. No more blood slicked her skin, but her hands were still covered in it. Jonathon's attack was a blatant and failed attempt to secure her once more, to bring her to Valentine and succeed in dragging her to the depths of darkness. His eyes didn't shine like the golden ones beside her. They were absent of any light, stemming from a pit of hell so deep Lucifer himself would not recognize it.

She starts quietly when his hand slips into hers, helping her rise from her seat beside him. She hadn't even spoken, knowing these men would pay no mind to her. They don't even believe her to be a Shadowhunter, much less a queen suited to win a hopeless war.

"Are you hungry?" Jace's voice is so soft, but his heartbreak speaks volumes. They're wrapped in white, and he bares the red runes of mourning. He'd not yet allowed himself to break down, to release the anguish boiling inside of him. She knows he blames himself. It's what he does.

So she lets him lead her to their shack in the woods, lets him eat his sandwich in silent contemplation. His sobs are unexpected, tearing her completely in half when the first one strikes.

She'd always secretly wondered what it was like to see Jace cry—or if he'd ever even cried before. Now she wishes she could un-see it, to forget the way it sounds when his heart is pulled from his chest, to un-memorize the way he gulps for air like he's drowning in his own sadness, the way he curls in on himself like he can't bear to be touched.

She rests a gentle hand on his arm, and when he doesn't flinch away, she pulls his head onto her lap, sifting her fingers through freshly clipped the way her mom did to her when she was young and having a nightmare. Except Jace couldn't just wake up.

"I've failed," he keeps mumbling, like a mantra of self-loathing. "I've failed them." The crimson marks lacing up his arm a reflection of the blood dripping from him yesterday. She wants to fold him into her, to absorb his pain and return him to the unbreakable, formidable man she once thought him to be. Instead, she cups his damp cheeks, willing his eyes to meet hers.

"You must stop blaming yourself, Jace." He shakes his head out of her grip, his stubbornness matching even hers as he closes his eyes again.

"I couldn't protect my brother, Clary. I let myself get to sucked in by all the emotions." He releases a shaky breath, each word a crack in her heart. "My love is a death sentence."

"Jonathon Christopher Herondale," she snaps harshly, and Jace flinches. She refuses to apologize as she pushes him from her lap into a sitting position. "You have a right to grieve. You've loved. You've lost. But you _don't_ have a right to push away the ones who love you, who care for you." Jace's golden eyes flicker with an undecipherable emotion. He's so raw right now, so open, that she can see each feeling etched on his face, his walls crumbled in her presence. "Your family, me? You need us as much as we need you right now. Your mother's heart would break if she knew you were trying to carry this alone." Even Jace's breathing was silent as he stared at her, his eyes now shimmering with more tears.

Instead of returning to that self-loathing state, he pulled her into his arms, clinging to her as if his life depended on it. "I love you, Clarissa Herondale." He breathed into her hair. "I love you, and I need you."

She squeezed him tighter, wondering if he felt as safe in her arms as she in his. "I'm right here." She responded, her words hot in the skin of his neck. "And I'm not going anywhere."

X.O.X.O.X

The green gown feels like an anvil on her shoulders as the maids tug it in another excruciating inch, jerking her into an upright position. It feels so foreign to sit with her ankles crossed, her hands folded politely in her lap when all her body wants to do is curl in on itself and disappear into the void. Her lessons have taught her that a princess's face should conceal every strong emotion. Gentle smiles and well-mannered nods seem to have become her repertoire of emotions. _Sorry for your loss_ was always granted a small thank you with a slight head bob. A motion for a hug was greeted with a gentle pat of her right hand against the partner's shoulder. Sad smiles called for more nods. Her ability to contain her sobs in the public eye is her greatest feat. When her chest feels like a blast zone, she can only bite her cheek and stare into the lights, refusing to ruin her makeup, refusing to show weakness in the face of defeat. Now, her own reflection keeps her tears at bay as she scrutinizes every inch of her appearance.

The dress clashes with the red curls and the crimson runes lacing up her arms, etched with her own hand days before, a stark reminder against her pale skin that this isn't a dream, that she can't just wake up to a new reality. She suffers loss with each fleeting glance downward, each flicker in her peripherals. It's an inescapable kind of grief that even penetrates even closed eyelids. As her maids dust glittering powders onto her face, she faces images of his half-transitioned body, of his elongated canines and fingernails. Cries of agony echo in the silence, her name on his lips even as he fought for his life. She'd been so, inexcusably and unforgivably rude to him these past months, pulling away in childish anger, questioning his morals, his very heart. Her palm still remembered how cold his fingers were curled in it, how his hand squeezed weakly when she begged his forgiveness, how his head made a soft sound as it lolled to the side.

"Green will mend our broken hearts," a familiar voice murmurs in her ear, the delicate hands on the ties of her corset replaced with the rough fingertips she'd come to know. She catches his gaze in the mirror, his anguish a reflection of her own as he straightens the sleeve of his green suit. His, though, matches his blond hair and amber eyes, like a prairie set aglow by the morning sun, its rays of life warming every inch of the world. His shirt hides his runes, hides his pain as he grips her hips, resting his chin on her already sluggish shoulder.

"Are you ready?" she asks, splaying her fingers on the white vanity before her, her wedding band glinting in the low light. It's become a staple on her hand, like she can't remember a time it wasn't there. She'd feel naked without it, lost. More lost than now, at least. They'd only just burned their dead, dust to dust. She'd bound her father in silk. She'd closed his eyes. _Ave atque vale_. Her tears had choked the words then, as they do now. She'd looked away as the Silent Brother set the flame, burning brighter and hotter than any pyre she'd ever seen, the only exit truly fit for a king.

"I don't think I could ever be ready," he answers truthfully, his lips dusting her neck as he speaks. His voice is so quiet, so meek in comparison to his commanding presence on the battle field. Fighting beside Jace was like dancing with a lion, while mourning with him was like standing in the wind. Silent but strong. Her heart aches for him. Max's pyre had been smaller than any she'd ever seen, a life laid to rest before even beginning. Jace had attended the funeral at a distance, clad in traditional white, hovering above the congregation with a drawn sword. He explained that he'd been tasked with neutralizing any threat to the agonized crowd, but Clary knows him better than that. Jace has never faced a challenge without a weapon, never felt emotion without a blade to cut it out. He's never allowed himself to mourn. His emotions are stifled by the paralyzing blame he places on himself, the shame he believes he's brought with the loss of his youngest brother.

"You can't blame yourself for this, Jace," she tries, but her plea falls on deaf ears. He's never been able to forgive himself for his parents' deaths. Valentine adding another loved one to the toll only strengthens this guilt, this inadequacy. "Valentine was only here because I was here." Jace shakes his head slowly.

"You can't feel guilty for existing, princess." She turns to face him, rousing his face from her shoulder and cupping it in her hands. It's sullen, with heavy, purple bags blossoming between his molten eyes.

"Neither can you," she affirms, shaking his head slightly as her fingertips dig into his cheekbones. She can see how much he wants to shrink away from her touch, so she drops her hands, wringing them in her lap and dropping her gaze. "This country needs you, needs _us_." Jace's responding sigh is heavy with both sadness and pressure. She'd never depicted Jace as an anxious man, but there's no other way to describe him now, with flickering eyes and a muscle leaping in his jaw. His fear is resounding and startlingly terrifying to her. She'd always been able to count on Jace for steadfast determination and endless persistence, but now that spark within him seems to have died along with her people. Each bloodied sword took with it a piece of him, until he lay scattered and broken before her. "We can do this," she presses forward. "We have to. For my dad. For Max. For everyone who's ever suffered at the hands of Valentine Morgenstern, we have to succeed."

"Princess," a guard interrupts, bowing his head respectfully as he addresses her through door, left ajar by one of her maids. "It is time." The air rushes from her lungs like a punch to the gut, and Jace stands like a statue beside her. Only the ties in her corset keep her upright as he's the first one to come to, looping her arm through his. His strong, steady presence has returned, a façade as he leads her from the room, trailing in the guard's footsteps. Tapestries are draped from every wall of the bunker, traditional white with runes of healing, runes of mourning, runes of rebirth. Each one turns the knife in her gut a little more, slowly destroying her from the inside out as she puts one foot before the other, endless progress to an infinite goal.

"Please don't let me fall," she whispers to her husband urgently as they stand before the ornately carved oak doors of the ballroom. Beyond them lay uncertainty. This path may lead to further destruction. It may lead to triumph. It may lead to a state of equilibrium much like the one they've resided in for the past ten years. Her heartbeat quickens as her future approaches like an uninvited guest.

"I won't." Jace tightens his grip on her elbow as the doors are opened, the sound of trumpets bursting through the threshold. The ballroom is swathed in a deep emerald green, stark in contrast to the absence of color everywhere else. The congregation rises as the guards draw their swords. This walk is a ghost of her wedding day, the heavy feeling in her gut all too familiar. That day she'd thought she'd lain her freedoms to rest, that her betrothal to Jace would clip her wings, reduce her to the mundane likes of a housewife, a vehicle for reproduction and nothing more. Today, she undoubtedly lays her freedom to rest. No longer can she roam about unnoticed and unguarded. No longer can she melt into the sea of strangers, just another face in the crowd. Each move will be closely monitored, watched for both security risk and treason.

Her feet blindly carry her to the front of the room, thankful when she's asked to kneel before the Silent Brother on a green pillow. His robes resemble the color of bones and smell like sage as he lifts the Codex high above his head. There's a rush of people being seated as Brother Zachariah rests the Codex before them, the hollows of his eyes landing their attention on Jace. His sewn lips give no instructions, yet Jace knows exactly what to do, resting his hand against their sacred book.

"I hereby swear," he announces beside her in a strong, solemn voice, the voice of a true king, so unlike the meager words he had for her in the privacy of their room, "I will be Raziel's Sword, extending his arm to strike down all evil. I will be Raziel's Cup, offering my blood to our mission. I will be Raziel's Mirror; when my enemies behold me, let them see his face in mine." Brother Zachariah produces a stele made of bone, and Jace extends his right arm, not even wincing as an intricate pattern is carved among the others. "I will serve with the angel's courage. I will serve with the angels' justice, and I will serve with the angel's mercy," he continues as Zachariah's stele turns red with his blood. "Until such time as I shall die, I will be king. I pledge myself in Covenant as a Nephlim, and I pledge my life and family to the Clave of Idris." Brother Zachariah turns his hollowed sockets on her, releasing Jace's arm as a golden crown is nestled among his curls.

Clary licks her chapped lips, strengthened by the power Jace sends to her through their connection, by his loving eyes trailing her. "I hereby swear," she begins, repeating Jace's oath. "Until such time as I shall die, I will be queen. I pledge myself in Covenant as a Nephlim, and I pledge my life and family to the Clave of Idris." The stele stings her arm, but she refuses to show pain as it does, instead meeting Jace's gaze and smiling subtly. Her bejeweled crown is placed upon her head, and Jace clasps her hand.

"Long live the king!" Cries ring out as they stand and face the gathering. Men, women, and children alike screaming for their safety. "Long live the queen!" Clary gathers her gown as people sweep into bows and curtseys, Jace escorting her from the room swiftly, like he can't bear to be a part of his own celebration. Laughter and music follow their exit. These people deserve a reason to drink and be merry, in the wake of so much lost, they need a moment of peace.

The sounds fade into the distance as Jace pulls them to a stop in front of their home, taking a heavy breath to settle the shaking in his hands. Clary turns the key and pulls Jace in behind her, out of the prying eyes. No sooner than she throws the lock does Jace have her engulfed in an embrace. He's not hugging her to comfort her. He's hugging her like she's his only tie to existence, like if he lets go he might just float into oblivion. "I love you," he murmurs into her hair like a mantra, undeterred when she doesn't say it back. He repeats it over and over like he can never say it enough. He talks into her hair until the sun falls below the horizon and their windows show them a star-filled sky. He continues to ramble about nothing when Clary pulls them both to bed, shedding their coronation attire and sliding between the sheets.

She just allows him to blather endlessly about fighting stances and turkey sandwiches and his love for her freckles until exhaustion finally takes its toll, pulling them both into the sated blackness of unconsciousness.

X.O.X.O.X

She's awaken by the splintering of the bedroom door, a rogue piece of wood slicing open her cheek. "Jace!" she gasps, holding the blanket to her naked breast as four armed guards burst into their room, illuminated only by the lights strapped to their foreheads. Jace is already on his feet, gripping a shimmering seraph blade in each hand. But these guards are human. And they have guns, red dots cutting holes in Jace's chest like unblinking, feral eyes. He faces them momentarily, waiting for one to flinch, for one to advance so he can bury the knife into the man's chest. The standoff seems to extend into infinity as the silence suffocates the room, not even her own heartbeat can be heard above the white noise. Casting a startled glance at his wife, Jace slowly lowers his weapons, but all she can do is stare at the men in her room, wild-eyed and terrified. She'd been on the other side of knives, of snapping teeth, of bows and swords, but never had she looked down the front of a barrel, the eyes of the man across from her focused on nothing but putting a bullet through her chest.

"Jace Herondale," one of the guards speaks while four rifles are trained on the king, two on Clary. There's not a quiver in his voice, but she can tell he's afraid. There had been no use for excessive force, especially in the dead of night, bursting into their apartment like this is some kind of action movie. "You are under arrest for treason and conspiracy." Though Jace no longer poses a threat to these men, the guards grab him harshly by the biceps, yanking his wrists behind his back and binding him with enchanted cuffs. Clary will never be able to forget the sound of his flesh sizzling beneath the mettle, of the grunt he releases as he grits his teeth, his golden eyes piercing through her as she reaches for him.

"No, Clary. I'm fine," he manages as he's hauled backward from the door. Clary can still feel the crosshairs over her heart, but she doesn't acknowledge them, rising to her feet with the blanket pulled taut around her body. Jace shakes his head at her, all while the guards seem to be enjoying the popping of his shoulders. He's struggling to match his backward steps to their forward pace. They're retreating from the room, but Jace's eyes don't leave hers. He's suppressing his urge to fight, to tear his arms from their grip and shred the shackles raising blisters on his wrists. His breaths are deep, calming him. His eyes are calculating. "Get. Alec," he grits out, just before the door is shut, severing any connection they have.

"Treason?!" Clary cries in dismay, wasting no time as she pulls on her gear and secures her weapons to her belt. Jace is communicating his emotions through their linked runes, assuring her that he's alright, that whatever they're putting him through, he can handle. Still, she finds herself sprinting down the abandoned hallway, tracing the steps she's certain they've taken. She can no longer hear Jace struggling against the guard's grip, but she can feel his pain has escalated, almost agonizingly so as she struggles to place one foot before the other. They still follow her commands, hauling her to the decommissioned dungeon, where prisoners were once held before the construction of the prison in the void. Now, it's used to house criminals for transport.

It's a dank space, with loose, stone walls and mildew growing from the corners out. The light is dim, flickering, and there always seems to be a droplet of water falling to the ground below. The wooden entrance looms before her, two cross-armed guards standing before it, awaiting her arrival. They're stoic, so much so that they'd be statuesque if it weren't for their uneven facial features and angry expressions. She does not fear them, though the stand almost two feet taller than she, guns held at the ready. She can hear a howl of pain as her chest clenches, nearly having her doubled over. "I demand that you move," she growls, surprised by the hostility Jace's pain has risen within her. She's thought to be a compassionate ruler, much like her father before her, yet here she is, using her power to control people. Except these men don't budge, unblinking as they peer past her, like she isn't even there, like she hasn't even spoken. "You two will be the terrorist if you do not grant me access to this room," she hisses, challenging them to disobey once more. She wants to scream that she is their queen, that they have no choice but to bow down as she passes through. But that won't help her case, not with the grunts of pain and metal clashing on the other side of the barrier.

"We cannot move for you, your majesty. The monarchy might be corrupt." Clary's brows furrow, and she can't help the scoff that escapes her lips. "One day. One _fucking_ day as Queen. The monarchy can't possibly be corrupt!" The guard doesn't give a response, but she can see that he's not budging, that if she wants to pass by, she must kill them, confirming their suspicions. "When this is cleared up, you can consider yourselves traitors to the crown." Their worried glances are the last of her concerns as she turns on her heel, sprinting once more through the cavernous and vacant hallways of the bunker. Jace's insistence on cardio certainly is paying off, as she finds herself banging on Alec's door a few minutes later, barely winded.

"Alec, open the door!" A rumpled Lightwood appears on the other end, running a hand through his spiky black hair, his blue eyes barely opened.

"Clary, I care not that you are the queen. You should not be banging on people's doors at—"

"Jace has been arrested," she cuts him off, uninterested in his displeasure with her. Alec opens the door wide enough for her to slip through, suddenly shaking the effects of sleep.

"Hello, Magnus," Clary greets the warlock, who is in a state of disarray much worse than Alec's. His hand is pressed against his forehead as he mumbles something about the time and snaps his fingers, a mug of steaming coffee appearing in his hand. He gives Clary a pointed look, to which she nods and a mug appears before her to. "Guards burst into our room and arrested him! They accused him to treason!" Magnus's eyes widen.

"Oh dear, this is not good." Clary nods, too riled up to reply with her usual sarcasm. Instead, she looks at Alec, who's been silently contemplating the situation.

"The guards wouldn't let me see him. They told me the monarchy was corrupt."

"This is _really_ not good. Like catastrophic not good. Like Caesar trusting Brutus not good."

"Magnus!" Alec snaps, wanting the warlock to silence his ramblings. The purple-haired man only rolls his cat-eyes, poofing a scone into his opened palm and sticking his tongue out at Alec's back.

"If they wouldn't let you in, Clary, there is no way Jace will be receiving a fair trial." Clary's spine stiffens at Alec's devastated tone. She knows he can feel Jace's pain, too, through their parabatai rune. There isn't a possibility he's missing these steady, violent waves, the ones that make her heart stop in her chest.

"What are they doing to him, Alec?" Clary clutches her fists to her chest, eyes downcast as realization dawns on her.

"They're going to kill him, aren't they?" Alec swallows hard, unable to form words. His black hair falls into his face as he simply nods. Clary pitches forward, suddenly feeling very ill. All they've overcome to get here, for what? All that time she'd wasted hating him, being angry at him. She'd thought they'd have eternity together, or twenty years at least. The shrinking timeline has her stomach churning. "I need to see him, Alec. I need to get into the void."

* * *

 _Ayyyeeee! Remind me to get another update in this week if I forget!_

 _All My Love_

 _~BallinBlonde21_


	20. Drama Queen

_Here's another update! Please enjoy!_

* * *

 _The Shadow Wars_

 _Chapter 20: Drama Queen_

* * *

 _Songs:_

 _Part 1: Follow You - Bring Me The Horizon_

 _Part 2: Breathe Me - Sia_

 _Part 3: Oh Lord - MiC LOWRY_

 _Part 4: Sad Song - We the Kings, Elena Coats_

 _Part 5: Inner Demons - Julia Brennan_

 _Part 6: Sleeping Beauty - Dylan Scott_

* * *

These cells are desolate, lonely as she passes chamber after empty chamber, wondering if Alec had purposefully sent her the wrong way. She's beginning to contemplate if anyone could even survive in this dark, dank prison, her mind flashing back to the horrors endured in Valentine's dungeon, though those people most certainly did not receive fair trial. A rune had silenced her footsteps, and her translucent skin glows, only adding to the eeriness of this setting. Even the guards didn't dare to wander the Void, sticking to strictly mapped routes and schedules, making it easy for Clary to slip past unnoticed.

It hadn't been hard for Alec to pick up shifts in this prison, as nobody wants to feed and protect Idris's worst criminals. It had only taken him two days to memorize the pathways she could take and times she could go. He told her nobody really went by Jace, a king fallen from grace. He's considered the most dangerous convict, a terrorist who'd somehow managed to infiltrate the royal family. They'd accused him of feeding Valentine information, claiming an eyewitness. Clary can't help but wonder if this happened under the influence of Kaelie's potion.

When she finally reaches an occupied cell, there's a man curled up in the corner. His chest is bare, revealing thick, inky tattoos cutting tracks across tanned skin. "Jace," she whispers urgently, but the figure doesn't stir. "Jace!" she tries again. She can see the ache in his bones as he lifts his head to face her, slash marks running in red streaks across his abdomen, opening old scars and creating new ones. Even in the darkness, she can see both his eyes are black and swollen nearly shut, his nose purple on both edges. He looks so weak, so helpless, though she knows he's anything but.

"Clary," Jace croaks. The hope in his voice shatters her soul into a million pieces as he drags his sore body to her, blood running red rivers down the valleys of is muscles. "Is this just another dream?" He's dreamed of her? His rough hand is gentle as it caresses her cheek, and she leans into his touch, her rune warm against her chest. She slides the opal stele from the waistband of her pants, pleading with her eyes to let her heal him, to take away his obvious pain. In true Jace fashion, he shakes his head. "They'll know."

She settles for turning over his palm and etching a rune to numb the pain on his wrist, melding seamlessly with the existing ones. She can see him visibly relax, though his breaths are still agonizingly slow, his fingers flexed around the bars as he struggles to remain standing. "What are they doing to you?" she asks gently, pressing her forehead against his through the gaps in his cell.

"They're just trying to get a confession out of me." The mischevious shimmer in his golden eyes has been extinguished, his orbs dull in this damp prison. They're chipping away at his resolve, working until he'll falsly admit to the accusations. "Clary, I swear on Raziel that I had _nothing_ to do with your kidnapping." She shushes him with a gentle kiss to his cracked lips.

"There's never been a doubt in my mind, Jace." She remembers the man, so broken and raw before her, tears streaming shamelessly down his cheeks as he wept for the dead—for his younger brother, for her father, for the countless innocents trapped in the crossfire. If they'd seen that man, the one completely shattered inside, they'd have no problem seeing that these allegations are groundless. Her fingers curl around the bars, their breaths mingling between them like ghosts of kisses. "I have to go," she tells him, biting back the words she wants to say. "I'll be back. I'm going to get you out of here."

His eyes slip shut, but he nods, refusing to watch her walk away, refusing himself thee luxury to hope. Even as she glances backward over her shoulder, his head is still bowed, dirt running up his cheek. There's only one way to prove Jace's innocence, and even that is a long shot.

X.O.X.O.X

 _Stay low. Don't go anywhere alone._ Alec's words ring through her head like an alarm. It had been two weeks since she'd seen Jace, two weeks that her rune has been silent, either an indication that Jace is too weak to project or something much, much worse. She barely leaves the apartment anymore. She hadn't even gotten dressed today. _Always have a witness_. Alec and Magnus are worried that Clary is next, that whoever convicted Jace of such atrocities is plotting to take over Idris. Alec and Magnus don't have any idea what the motivation behind this might be. They've speculated it could be the change of power, the revelation of Clary's true nature, but the queen herself fears it might be something much bigger than that. Her gut tells her that this nightmare has to connect back to Valentine, that he's the only one that has use for her, for Idris, in which case, her citizens are at risk.

"Clarissa," Simon snaps, pulling her attention back from where it had been wandering. "You're going to burn yourself." She glances downward slowly, finding her hand hovering dangerously close to the skillet on Isabelle's stove. Simon has enlisted himself as Chief Clary Distracter—an official title he'd legitimately given himself, complete with printed business cards—by dedicating his free time to teach Isabelle and Clary how to cook. And Simon has an absurd amount of downtime for a Shadowhunter.

"I was just…checking that it was on," she lies poorly, adding an awkward laugh at the end. Simon rolls his eyes, not buying it as he flips the vegetables skillfully in the pan. Truthfully, she's grateful for this friendship. She can't imagine where she'd be if she had to traverse this alone. Isabelle has not left her side, insisting Clary sleep in the same bed as her, to ensure that she always has someone to vouch for her whereabouts, and someone to protect her. _Not that a badass like you actually needs protecting_ , she'd added with a wink, much to Clary's chagrin.

Two weeks—she finds herself thinking again—two agonizing weeks since she'd kissed Jace through the bars of his cell, two weeks that she's continued to fail him. Being with Simon and Isabelle is easy. They don't rely on her to make conversation, their budding relationship consuming most of their attention when they're within a seventy-yard vicinity of each other. She's happy for them. They're good for each other. She just wishes they'd kiss and get it over with already. The sexual tension is suffocating. "Clary!" Isabelle yells, flicking flour in Clary's direction to get her attention. Clary tosses her a glare, though Isabelle's too busy laughing at Clary's white curls to notice. "Angel, I'd been trying to ask you if you're ready to eat for five minutes!"

Clary doesn't have it in her to respond, so she merely nods, dusting flour from her hair and watching it fall like snowflakes to the ground. She'd only ever seen snow once, that night when she'd burned Jace's bed, when he'd walked through the storm to rescue her, when he'd offered to walk back so she didn't have to ride with him. That was the night she really forgave him. The night she realized he loved her, that the mere thought of it terrified him. He'd been there for her that night and so many times before, yet she can't even rescue him this one, fucking time.

She pushes the food around on her plate, feigning interest in the conversation. She'd been waiting for Alec for two weeks, hoping he'd finally send word from the Silent City that the plan had been set into motion, that the Silent Brothers had seen their logic and agreed to help. Radio silence is all she's ever met with when she sits before the crackling fire in Isabelle's living room, staring into the orange flames as Isabelle paints her nails and rambles about Simon's mixed signals. "Clary, what do you think of the Shadowhunter colors? Do you think white is a good color for mourning? Or do you think it's an insult to humans and their wedding traditions?"

"Yeah, I guess," she mumbles, her cheek pillowed in her hand as she chews numbly on a piece of bread, her eyes landing on the roaring fire, watching, waiting…always waiting.

"That isn't really—" Isabelle had starred to say when the flames in her fireplace finally rise up, glowing violet before extinguishing completely, leaving a yellowed piece of parchment in their wake. Clary's gripping it before it's even cooled, the word scrawled haphazardly in black ink, so unlike Jace's flowing script but giving her hope and butterflies just the same.

 _Go._

X.O.X.O.X

"Tell us how you've been communicating with the Circle," the mundane soldier hisses, raising the hammer, threatening to bring it down upon Jace's splayed fingers. Denying these claims is fruitless, Jace had found, evidenced by the three broken fingers on the table before him. The guard's dark eyes are hard, resentful even as he demands information Jace simply doesn't have.

The blisters on his wrists have popped and blistered again beneath the metal of his shackles, the guards only laughing at his obvious pain. He's long ago trained himself to separate his mental self from the physical pain of his body, a skill that's proved to be quite useful in his current profession. It certainly comes in handy now as he anticipates another blow. "I'm not a traitor. I am a general, a leader, a _king_."

"You are no king to me," the man growls, lifting the hammer a bit higher before the door is kicked open. Clary enters, her hair tossed haphazardly into a bun, her dressing gown drawn tightly over her pajamas. The hammer halts under Clary's icy stare, and the man fumbles, dropping into an awkward bow. She dismisses him with a look of disgust.

Instead, she addresses the overseer, the man who's commanding the torture. "Whose orders are you acting upon?" she demands, the power in her voice that of a true queen. The torturer shudders a bit beneath her authority, but the overseer looks her directly in the eye.

"I don't have the authorization to discuss this with you." Clary scoffs, charging forward so she's nose-to-nose with him. Well, nose-to-throat, but the intimidation is still there. Even Jace is stiffening beneath the power she's radiating.

"I am your queen, and I will have _you_ tried for treason if you do not disclose this information to me." There's not a hint in her voice that says she's bluffing, and the overseer gulps. "Sooner than later, soldier."

"Verlac, ma'am, I mean…your majesty." She inclines her chin as he continues. "Verlac is the one that presented the evidence of Herondale's treasons."

"And why has he been not given a fair trial? Why have you decided it was impartial to break his fingers before seating him before a judge?"

"Verlac insisted…"

"Verlac is not your king!" she explodes. "This man you have in shackles is. This man is the one Lucian Garroway deemed fit for the throne. Verlac is not allowed to question that, and you most certainly are not either." She stands straighter, and you could hear a pin drop before her next words. "King Herondale will stand trial this afternoon to prove his innocence beneath the Mortal Sword." She levels her gaze on the overseer. "And the rest of you will then have your turn to admit your guilt. Your deaths will be dishonorable and in vein. Unless…" she drawls, feigning contemplation. The men in the room all wait for her proposition with bated breath. Jace just flexes his fingers, suppressing a cringe at the odd angle of the broken ones. "I will spare your lives if you choose to testify against Sebastian Verlac. Then he shall be the traitor to die at the edge of the Mortal Sword, and you all will live as heroes to the nation."

There's no hesitation when they agree, and Clary instructs them to unbind Jace. Her guards loop their arms around him, supporting his weak and broken frame despite his protests. "Lay low," she commands the room, "and prepare your testimonies."

She strides from the room, every ounce as powerful as when she'd entered, and Jace follows, aided by the guards. The hallways are barren as they return to their apartment. Clary deadbolts the door, the guards stationed outside as Jace settles on the chair. "I will shackle you again if you refuse iratzes," Clary warns, removing the stele from her robe. Jace shrugs, watching her carefully as she heals his fingers, his face. She can't heal his pride, though, and that is what is most wounded.

An adulterous husband, an unloyal king—the manipulation surrounding Jace's infidelities have been shrouded in darkness and secrets for so long. It is time to bring them to the light, to prove to the Idrisians, _her_ Idrisians, that Jace is their benevolant leader, their steadfast warrior, to assert that he is her adoring husband who'd never wish ill-will on anyone, let alone his queen.

"I've never seen you like this," he whispers hoarsly as she fetches him a glass of water. He puts two fingers beneath her chin, ensuring her gaze stays locked with his. Not that she could ever pull away. His eyes have never been clearer, a transparent window directly into his soul. She finds love and respect in them. She finds resolve and strength. She finds a deep, penetrating sadness that fills her own heart. Most prominently, she finds fear, for their future, for her rule, for his life.

"Like what?" she breathes, unblinking as his hand shifts to cup her cheek. She leans into his touch without hesitiation, rough with scars and callouses. His arms, his hands—they feel like home to her now, like if everything evaporated around them, she'd have everything she'd ever need in his warm embrace.

"Formidable," he answers, his face growing closer with every word, "forceful, righteous, commanding. I've always known you've had control over me: my thoughts, my love, my eternal life. But in that room, those men desired to bow to you, to _die_ for you. You own them, Clary." The tip of his nose brushes hers now, "You've never looked more like a queen." She doesn't know if it's his intoxicating proximity or the way his words set her nerves aflame, but she closes the gap between their lips, cinching her arms tightly around her neck.

Jace responds vigorously, his hands falling from her face, slipping down her sides to grip behind her sides. She jumps onto his hips, her legs wrapped securely around his waist as he clears the counter, the glass of water spilling onto the floor as he sets her atop it. It's only been a few days, but the way her body responds to his feather-light touches feels like its been centuries. She drops her head backward to allow him access to the milky skin of her throat. "I'm still going to call you _princess_ , you know."

Clary pulls him closer with her legs, laughing at his crooked smile. "I wouldn't have it any other way." They spend the night memorizing each other again, new scars and old, creating maps with their minds and hands. Breathless and enamored by each other, they make love until the silver-white light of dawn filters through the window. Even wrapped in their bubble, they can sense the reckoning soon to come, a nagging reminder in the back of their heads. Clary can only pray for Jace's freedom while Jace asks Raziel for Clary's safety. She wants to tell him how deeply her love for him runs, that he's become integrated in every cell of her being, that her stardust yearns to be reunited with his.

But she can only splay her fingers across his marriage rune, feeling him shudder beneath her cold touch, hoping he can feel these emotions. Because saying them when the future is so uncertain, so unclear, might just kill her.

X.O.X.O.X

 _Jonathon Herondale,_ the silent brother addresses him, his cavernous eyesockets fixated on the boy, no older than he when he took this oath, when he abandoned his mortal life, his love, his best friend. He recognizes the fear of the unknown beneath the boy's stoic expression, a wall severing his emotions from the rest of the world—a trait of many Herondale's before him. _There's no need to fear the truth_ , he says cryptically. The room is silent, filled with many anxious faces, curious about the wordless exchange between the bald man in parchment robes and the Shadowhunter dressed both for battle and death.

"I am not afraid," the King responds in a strong, unquivering voice. Brother Zachariah, as the Silent Brother is named, catches the sideways glance the Shadowhunter gives his wife, who sits upon a velvet throne, hands folded in the lap of her crimson gown, thick curls cascading over her shoulders. She wears a simple circlet, no celebration in conviction, no joy in execution. These ceremonies used to be lavish, with drinking and dancing around the severed head, rejoicing the extermination of evil. The queen's face appears to be a little green as her gaze flickers between Brother Zachariah's and Jace's.

Jace kneels before the man, responding to a silent prompt as he holds his palms out, upward, anticipating the weight of the sword. It's heavier than he'd expected, made for defenseless victims rather than battle. The metal hilt is cool, the double-edged blade sharp enough to draw blood resting against his skin. Gemstones encrust the handle, catching the sparkling light from the chandelier.

It's not so much the physical feeling of the sword as the way it alters his mind. He can feel it probing deep within his brain, seeking answers to broadcast and lies to destroy. It makes him feel squirmish, having this powerful force control his every word. The right questions could free him. The wrong ones could destroy him.

Finally, he peers upward, meeting those gaping pits in Brother Zachariah's face.

 _Have you been unfaithful to your queen?_ an emotionless voice penetrates the crowd's minds. There is a collective shift as they lean forward in their seats, eagerly awaiting the king's response. The sword paralyzes his lips from denying, forcing the truth to fall from his tongue.

"Yes." Brother Zachariah silences the murmers with a lifted hand, parchement robe lifting to reveal the red runes lacing up his arm. These people, Shadowhunters, humans, and Downworlders alike, lapse into silence, terrified to the Silent Brother's appearance and power.

 _Did you perform these acts with conscious mind and under your own free will?_ Clary can almost hear the smile in his voice. It's strange when these Silent Brothers are humanized, a mere shadow of their old selves. Clary had met a warlock—many years ago—who had loved this very brother, now and before he swore his oath. His birth name is Jem, Tessa had told her, and he had a parabatai of the Herondale line, an ancestor of Jace.

"No," Jace affirms in a gruff voice, the wounds of Kaelie's magic still very raw and painful. He will never forget the haunted look of disappointment in Clary's eyes—in everyone's eyes—when they realized he'd done exactly what they'd thought he'd do. Tension is relieved from the room as people once again whisper amongst each other. Is their king the man they believe him to be? Or is he so much more?

 _What caused these infidelities?_ Clary and Jace had discussed that they have no desire to expose Kaelie, to have her killed alongside Sebastian, but with the sword encased in his grip, Jace has no choice but to answer.

"Fae magic."

 _Of whose doing?_ Brother Zachariah will not let this criminal go unnoticed, Jace realizes. Clary is gnawing her lip from her throne, her eyes skimming the crowd for bleached hair.

"Kaelie Whitewillow." There's a shocked intake of breath, but Clary is too concentrated on her search. Kaelie is not in attendance, undoubtedly knowing her maliciousness would come to light. Brother Zachariah does not pause before his next question.

 _Did you have part in the kidnapping of Princess Clarissa?_

"I did not." Gasps resonate as the false accusation comes to light. Each person peers at their neighbor, wondering if was them who'd blamed the king for such atrocities. _Who did?_

"I do not know." Just then, the doors to the court burst open, revealing Clary's royal guards, headed by Alaric. His grey eyes are wide, frazzled, and his hands are stained in blood.

"Your majesty," he addresses her, people shifting from his path as he passes by them, completely ignoring their displeasure. "Your witnesses, they've all been found dead." Brother Zachariah's head is cocked to the side, analyzing this exchange.

"Do you have any suspects?" she asks calmly, though her heart is pounding in her chest. This trial may relieve Jace of the crimes and guilt, but it means little if Sebastian is free to do it again. Alaric shakes his head, and the queen rises. She turns her head to Brother Zachariah, who simply nods, reading her thoughts. "My people, someone has been communicating with Valentine. I do not know who, and I will not stoop to subjecting the entire population to the Mortal Sword. That being said, I do know who ordered the imprisonment of my king, and I, Queen of Idris, will testify on his behalf." With all the grace she can muster, she crosses the room to kneel beside Jace, placing her hands beside his on the sword. Her body jolts as its power fills her, sifting through her thoughts, her memories. It's strangely intimate, to have this sword know her darkest fears. Jace's arm brushes against hers, and that's all the motiviation she needs to meet Jem's eyes.

 _Who commanded the imprisonment of the King of Idris, falsely and without fair trial?_ If Clary's life were a bad television show, this would be the season finale, when the antagonist is finally revealed to the blind castmembers, when the victims finally can breathe freely without fear of reperussions, of death.

"Sebastian Verlac," she answers instantly and without emotion. The courtroom buzzes as they search for the dark-haired soldier. He's not hiding, he reveals, as he stands in the seventh row.

"People of Idris. How much stock can we put in this sword, a relic of old times when humans did not know of our existance and Downworlders feared our blades? This method of trial is as dated as it is false." Of course, Sebastian would not go down with a fight. Somehow, he's captivated this audience, drawn them into his falsehoods. "Can we believe that this sword might work on a Shadowhunter with Downworlder blood, when they were mortal enemies at the time of its creation?" Clary's head whips to Jace's, though he's as clueless as she. "Ah, yes, Jonathon Herondale, a noble line of Shadowhunters who migrated to Alicante. No one expected me to discover that there's a demon in his bloodline." Murmurs erupt, but Brother Zachariah lifts his hand, paralyzing the room.

 _The Mortal Sword works on all mortals. Those with the ability to both kill and be killed—it will draw truth from their clenched teeth. It can extract memories so deeply it can destroy the brains of even the strongest warlocks. It is the only form of inquisition that has no doubt in its result. Regardless of the composition of Herondale's blood, he's been found innocent of all charges. Now, you, Sebastian Verlac, will kneel before me and testify, or I will remove your head simply for questioning the morals of the Silent Brothers._

There's no denying a Silent Brother's request when he's controlling your brain, commanding your own body to betray you. It's evidenced now by Sebastian's disjointed walk to the front of the room, an obious internal battle to remove Jem's hold over him. He drops to his knees, head bowed as Jem presses the sword into his unwilling hand. _Did you command Jace's capture?_

"Yes." _Did you have hand in the kidnapping of the princess._ "Yes." _Have you been in communication with Valentine?_ Hesitation, and then, "Yes." Jace's eyes cut to Clary's as Brother Zachariah lifts the sword, the king and queen rising to accept it. Clary's hands wrap around the heavy hilt, lifting it as Sebastian sits before her with bowed head.

"Why?" she asks, so quietly that the crowd can't hear over their own surprise. "I loved you, Sebastian. Why would you betray me?!" Tears sting her eyes, but she refuses to shed another in his presence. This man, with his soothing and familiar aurora, is now a stranger to her, blinking up with eyes as black as night, as hard as stone. The only emotion corsing through him is anger.

"Because you married _him!_ Him, Clary! I was there for you when your mother died, when you discovered your true self. I was _there_ for you, Clary. And you traded me in for the newer, better model." Clary wants to spit in his face that her father forced this marriage, that she hadn't wanted it in the first place, but she comes up short. She has no idea where she would be without Jace, without his unyielding love.

"You're right. Jace is better than you. Because you can bet that if he'd been in your shoes, he wouldn't have turned to the enemy to get me back." Her hands are quivering as she lifts the sword, preparing for the ceremonial execution. Without warning, an arrow flies through the air, implanting in Sebastian's back and driving right through his chest. The mortal sword clatters to the ground as she brings her hands up to cover her mouth, blood trickling from the corners of Sebastian's mouth as he pitches forward, his arms sickeningly limp, his eyes wide and unblinking. Fighting back both sickness and relief, Clary tips her eyes to the sky, finding Alec crouched in the rafters, dressed in rebellious black. Even now, he is fighting her battles from the sky. She nods at him curtly, which he returns with a solemn nod of his own, before disappearing into the shadows.

Then she turns to Jace, leaving Sebastian behind as she reaches for him. Jace meets her halfway, his hands on her cheeks, guiding her lips to his as chaos enters the courtroom, the Mortal Sword lying forgotten on the ground. Jace is free. Their love is free.

But she can't help but wonder how long this will last.

X.O.X.O.X

Clary feels like the darkness is swallowing her as she sits up in bed, Jace snoring softly beside her. He deserves his rest, the irazes only healing the external wounds he'd suffered. His battles trump hers, so she stares into the swirling blackness, wishing her window would show her a moon, some shred of light to cut through the blackness enveloping her.

Sebastian had betrayed her. He'd orchestrated the attack on Idris. He'd targeted Jace. He was responsible for the deaths of her people. For Max. For her father. And he claimed it was because he loved her, because his heart had shattered when she'd chosen to marry Jace, when she'd refused to fight.

Where had the man who'd told her to open herself to love gone? Where was the one she'd spent countless nights with her dancing in the square? The one who mourned his brothers lost in combat? Had that all been a façade? A carefully constructed lie she'd fallen for? Meant only to penetrate her defensive walls? To grant Valentine access to her? His black eyes burn into her. She can feel Jonathon's hands on her skin, hot like fire but turning her veins to ice. Sebastian had made that possible. Sebastian had handed her directly to the men who only meant to harm her. And she'd let him in. It all comes back around to her. It's her fault. The blood is on her hands.

"Stop that, Clary." Jace grumbles, his arm curling around her.

"Stop what, Jace? You don't even have your eyes open."

"I don't have to have my eyes open to see you're blaming yourself."

"You should be sleeping," she chides after a moment, hoping she'd skillfully avoided the topic. Jace, though, props himself on his elbow. His golden eyes slice through the darkenss like the moonlight she'd been praying for. Only this is more familiar, more comforting.

"So should you. Saving people is exhausting. I should know." She wants to roll her eyes, but his words bring tears to her eyes. She couldn't save anyone. Jace smooths his hand down her back.

"Luke, Max—I couldn't save them, Jace. Sebastian planned the attack because of me. It's all my fault."

"Clary, we've gone over this. It's not your fault."

"Sebastian said it was because he loved me—"

"Sebastian was also my second, princess. If anyone should have seen his treasonous behavior, it should have been me."

"You're always doing that, Jace. You're always trying to take away my pain."

"It's better than trying to watch you carry it, especially when you unrightfully place it on your shoulders." He catches her wrist and turns it over, placing an open-mouthed kiss against her creamy skin. "Please sleep, love. I can't possibly sleep when I know you're hurting."

"Death and destruction follow me around like a shadow." She shakes her head, curls spilling over her shoudlers. "It's like there's this war in me, Jace. It rages at all hours. Good against evil. Angel versus demon. And the angel is losing."

"There is no darkness in your soul, Clary. Maybe you can't see it, but I can. You radiate pure light. You bring joy to people by simply entering a room, Clary."

"We all have inner demons, Jace. Even me."

"So let me fight them for you, Clary. Let me battle those demons because they don't truly belong to you."

"I can't do that to you, Jace. I've already cost you so much." Clary's rawest emotions present themselves in the middle of the night, and Jace's protectiveness is at its peak.

"You've given me a purpose, Clary. You've shown me I can be honest and open and that love is not weakness. You've cost me my isolation, my loneliness. You've given me something much better." He kisses her lips softly, laying them both down. "Sleep, princess. Even in your dreams I will protect you."

X.O.X.O.X

Jace smooths his hand down the curve of Clary's back. She'd been tossing fitfully in the darkness until he'd traced the sedative rune against her thigh, pulling the blankets up to her chin and wrapping his arms securely around her torso. He'll never forget the widening of Sebastian's eyes as he glanced downward at the arrow impaling him. He'll never forget the way his body thudded against the wooden floors as he pitched forward. He'll never forget the way Clary defended him to Sebastion, even as he ridiculed her, demanded she declare her love for Jace was false.

He toys with a curl on her head, her soft, even breaths a comforting sound in the moonlight. He can't let her carry the weight of this. She hadn't done anything wrong. She'd followed her orders to marry Jace, to stay faithful to him, to abandon what she thought was her happiness. There's no fault in her actions, no flaw in her logic. Sebastian was the rightful traitor, the owner of the blame, and he'd died for his crimes, though Jace wishes he'd suffered more than the spearing of Alec's arrow.

He'd never been more grateful for his parabatai than in that moment. He'd stood, frozen as the Mortal Sword shook in Clary's quivering and unsure hands. It isn't in her DNA to take the life of one she once loved, one she'd trusted. Alec had seen that in her. Alec had it in him to act when Jace didn't. Granted, Jace was weak. He hadn't eaten in days, and the cuts were still healing as he'd entered the courtroom. Alec had stepped up where Jace had failed, and while he should feel jealousy and embarrassment, he felt only gratitude. That burden would have crushed Clary, turned her into a shell. She'd play it over and overe in her mind, wondering if he'd suffered more than he should have, if he'd forgiven her on the otherside. Now, he watches her agonize over letting him into her life, granting him access to everything Valentine needed to strike. She's blind to the fact that Sebastian had swindled everyone. He'd fooled Luke. He'd fooled Isabelle. He'd fooled Jace enough to rise to second in rank.

If anyone should wrestle with his inability to see through his façade, it should be Jace. Jace is meant to keep Idris safe from outside threat. He's their first line of defence. Their strategist. If he can't see a rat in his own squadron, how can he even dream of dredging one up from millions of citizens. Except he can't voice these thoughts. It would be hypocritical to command that Clary not blame herself and turn around doing the exact same things. There are things he would change, signs he would pay more attention to. He would stop Max from sprinting into battle. He would save the king. But he can't travel backward in time to do those things.

If he can spend his life saving this one girl—from danger, from heartbreak, from herself—it will be enough.

* * *

 _And I didn't even leave you with a cliff hanger! I'm leaving the country soon, so I'll try to get another update in the next few days. The internet at my house seriously sucks. The last chapter took over two hours to upload. Anyway...thanks for reading! Please drop me a review!_

 _All My Love_

 _~BallinBlonde21_


	21. Burn, Baby, Burn

_The end is in sight! There's like 30 pages left in my master doc so that roughly will be about four chapters, give or take. Thank you all for your kind words of encouragement. I'm glad that many of you are as attached to this story as I am! Please enjoy!_

* * *

 _The Shadow Wars_

 _Chapter 21: Burn Baby Burn_

 _Songs:_

 _Part 1: The Other - Lauv_

 _Part 2: I See Fire - Ed Sheeran_

 _Part 3: Born To Die - Lana Del Ray_

 _Part 4: Don't Go Home Without Me - LIGHTS_

* * *

"I'm going, and you _can't_ stop me," she hisses, securing blades to her belt as she stomps away from him and up to their bedroom. He knows she's purposefully avoiding his gaze because she knows this is the wrong choice. She knows it's dangerous and stupid, but in her own, twisted way, she needs this—the facedown, the fight. She needs to show Valentine that she's unafraid, that he can beat her down but she will never fall into submission. She's strapping a sword across her back as Jace catches her hand, pulling her to a stop and gripping her hips, a bit too tightly as he positions her before him.

"I'm coming with you." Each word is punctuated with determination, indicating that this is not up for discussion, that he can either fight beside her or behind her, but he _will_ be there. He's surprised when she doesn't even move to protest. Instead, she silently nods, shaking from his hands to continue her whirlwind movement about the room, collecting weapons from various locations. Jace readies himself for battle, every so often casting glances at his tormented wife through his golden lashes. Her grief is etched into her face, into every worried line in her forehead, into her lips pressed tightly together with stress.

He doesn't protest as she stomps her way to the hanger, buckling herself into her seat and insisting he move at hyperspeed. Maybe it's because he needs to kill Valentine, too, to see his head lopped from his shoulders, that his death might ease the pain of his family's. He knows it's ridiculous, that vengeance blinds a warrior, but he can't help but be guided by this need for revenge, for _justice_. The distant look in Clary's eyes is so familiar, like separating oneself from reality can avoid any heartbreak, any hurt. He should turn the ship around and refuse allowing her to make decisions without emotions. He should lock her away so she can never confront Valentine again. But he doesn't. Because she'd never forgive him. And for that, he'd never forgive himself.

He knows Valentine is stronger than them, that this day might end in more death and destruction. He also knows that Clary would have happily waltzed into her death without him. So here he is, launching her bird into Lake Lyn to deliver them both to what might be their demise. No sooner than they land is Clary dropping gracefully from the hatch, brandishing a blade in each hand. Jace scrambles to follow her, catching up to her just as the first wave of demons appear. He watches in awe as Clary slices through one after another, no hesitation in her motions, each as steady and strong as the last. It's when they don't stop coming that he falters.

"It's an ambush!" Jace cries, sweeping his arm over Clary's midsection to push her behind his body as the demons approach from in front. He's launching knife after knife at them, cutting them down steadily but not quickly enough. Clary's fighting his grip, but he won't let their ichor-soaked tentacles reach toward her, won't let her stare down their vacant throats and snapping teeth. Arrows zing by his cheek, loosed from the bow Clary had removed from Jace's back. The two of them dropping the demons is still not enough as they become surrounded, forced to their knees before the rows of black, slimy creatures.

"Maaaaaster wants them aliiiiiive," a demon at the front hisses in a voice that pierces Jace's eardrums. Clary shrinks into him, petrified by the forked tongue that flicks from the beast's mouth to form the words.

"Close your eyes, Clary," Jace whispers in a hushed tone as the demons surge forward to apprehend the pair. "Don't look at them." He can feel her heart hammering against the back of his arm, her muscles flexing as she squeezes her eyes shut. Jace stands strong and unwavering for the both of them, refusing to let go of Clary even when the beast's claws dig into his arm to detach the pair, tearing through the muscle and painting the floor in his blood. Eventually, they move them together, all while Jace rubs circles against Clary's back with his good arm, at least until the demon ichor blurs his vision, his body going slack as it finally takes over.

X.O.X.O.X

Black eats at the edges of her cell, seeking purchase on something that would grant it access. It mocks her, flickering like the devil itself as it bides its time. Hellfire is the largest type of demon, though it's not really a demon at all. It feeds on people, using even the charred remains to grow, spreading its darkness through all dimensions. Where earthly fire brings light and warmth, hellfire sucks out all the light, replacing it with sweltering heat strong enough to melt even flesh. Clary's toes are closest to it, blistering even though it's struggling to get closer than six feet away.

"This isn't how it's supposed to be," she grits out, her chest heaving up and down. The shackles around her wrists are becoming increasingly hot, spreading pain down her arm and into her shoulders. But she suffers silently, her screams weighed down by the knowledge that this is all her fault. "We were supposed to—" she chokes on her own words, unable to force the air out of her burning lungs when her eyes finally rise to Jace's.

He's strung up just like her, his back pressed against the jagged edges of the stone wall. His head is lolled to the side, but his eyes are open, lazily trailing her motions as she scrabbles to her feet. In the dying light, she can see every gash on his marked skin. Crusted blood stops his older wounds, but the fresh ones still weep, crimson rivers running through the crevices of his muscles, the same ones her fingers have come to know. She doesn't know how long they've been here, starved, beaten, all because they won't side will Valentine, all because they won't go dark.

Every time Jace takes the knife, the whip, the demon sting, Clary feels like caving, feels like giving her soul to Valentine simply to save Jace's. The moment that thought crosses her mind, she can feel Jace's fear, his anguish, at losing her to the pits of hell, the guilt he would feel for not being strong enough. So she's left to grit her teeth and hold his gaze as each drop of blood falls.

Valentine's footsteps echo through the room, coming from everywhere and nowhere all at once. He's standing between them before she can register which side he's appeared from, a malicious glint in his demonic eyes. "Have you had enough, yet, dearest daughter? I've grown tired of this dance." A blade flashes in the dim light, reflecting his black irises at her.

"I will _never_ be your daughter," she hisses, rattling her shackles as she snaps her teeth in his direction. "No matter how many times you take that knife to my skin, I will not call you _father_." She finds a scream tearing up her throat as Valentine strikes, not impaling her own chest, but rather Jace's burying the knife to the hilt in his marriage rune.

The scream is not her own, though. It is throaty, echoing the sound of her own name. It is a remnant of Jace's. His last thought before their connection is severed. Loneliness presses down on her like a heavy blanket. She can't feel his emotions, can't recognize his life force. "What have you done?" she cries in horror, her tears evaporating instantaneously.

"I've removed anything tying you to Earth. You _will_ take your rightful place beside me in the Lake of Fire."

"Why have you forsaken our angel?" she yells. "We are not made heavenly to sink to the depths of Hell!" But she is only met with Valentine's sickening smile, his cloak brushing against the hellfire as he sweeps from the room, leaving her eyes to land on Jace's.

He's still watching her, his golden eyes burning darker and darker as the inferno nears. They're flickering, but not from the flames. He's clinging to his last shred of life, the warrior in him refusing to die an easy death. It can sense the life leaving him, can predict his very last breath.

"I…I _love_ you," she manages, but it is so weak in the winds of Hell that she is uncertain it's able to reach him through the void. It's the first time she's said it to him. The first time she's allowed this vulnerability.

"My love," he breathes softly, a small smile tugging at his lips. His once strong, steady voice is as soft as a whisper, but it floats easily to her ears. She allows herself to sob once, watching his entire body slump against the wall, the knife handle still protruding from his chest.

She doesn't need their connection to know that he's gone. His muscles have ceased to quiver, the inky runes wrapping up his arms beginning to fade in the last of the light. His golden eyes are glazed, yellowing as they stare blankly at the space to her right.

She squeezes her own shut, not wanting to see him that way. Jace is not weak. Even in the face of death he is strong. But death has the ability to make anyone look pathetic. It reminds her too much of her mother's last moments.

It's all in vain, though. The hellfire will soon reach them both. She will cease to exist just as he has, moving on to neither heaven nor hell because those places are for people who pass on from the earthly dimension. Luke will never know what has happened to her, her body merely becoming one with the hellfire as it absorbs her. They will mourn. They will forget. Idris will never know the conditions of her demise. It will be a memory in the back of their minds by the time the hellfire decides to release her few remains.

She hopes maybe there is consciousness in the hellfire, that maybe she can feel Jace once more as they drift on for infinity, traveling the circles of Hell with the demon as their guide. The heat is becoming unbearable as her death closes in on her. Biting her lip, she flutters her eyes open, wanting to meet her demise with dignity as a true Shadowhunter would.

Except it's not the black flames of hell winking viciously at her. The fire before her is golden, eating away at the metalwork and stone walls. It works its way down the iron bars, turning them into red, glowing pipes before they melt away. It makes no motion toward her as it extends its reach to Jace's bars, pushing out the darkness and filling the room with bright, blinding light.

A hand extends from the whiteness, reaching for her with a blazing grip. But it is soft as it melts away the restraints around her wrists, warm against her skin as it lifts her from the sizzling ground. The light consumes her as she steps forward, finding herself encased in its embrace.

Inside, it's what she would picture the eye of a storm to be. Golden flames swirl endlessly around her, eating away at the depths of hell itself. The fluidity of its motions is mesmerizing, entrancing her as the struggles to find a single lapse in its perfect waves. It's molten, but sheer, allowing her a shimmering front-row view as it demolishes the dungeon, melting away all the bars. Jace's body has disappeared, captured by this heavenly fire as it cuts its way through the dimension.

A hand falls onto her shoulder, startling her as the fire continues to whirl. Steeling her nerves, she turns around to meet this potential savior, startled to silence as she's met with the most comfortable and unsettling set of eyes she's ever seen. They're pure, liquid gold, shining even brighter than the fire around them. Even lacking a pupil, she knows they are trained on her, gaging her wounds and her reactions at the same time. Her fears disperse because she can never be afraid under this careful gaze.

Because it belongs to Jace.

The runes she'd thought to be fading are glowing, shooting light out in all directions as his hand reaches for hers. She takes it, his grip familiar as she refuses to break the silence between them. He guides her away from danger the way he's done so many times in their short relationship.

His fire moves with him, not so much a power of his as an extension of him. It reduces everything it touches to ashes. Even the knife in Jace's chest as disappeared, only a crack of golden light indicating something had been there.

His steps are slow, deliberate, so unlike the first time he came to her rescue. That was all passion and confusion and desperation. This is total confidence, his flames dominating the fight as he presses forward.

"What is this?" Jonathon's voice demands as he appears on the other side of the curtain. His black eyes don't make it through the brightness, replacing them with all white. He is flanked by two demons, who charge on command. They barely touch the wall before disappearing into light, becoming one with the heavenly fire.

Clary refuses to feel guilty as Jonathon's face lights up with terror. He's backing away slowly, but Jace stalks forward with each one of the former's steps. Jonathon turns on his heel to sprint down the corridor, but the flames shoot out, catching the tail of his cloak. The howl he releases stands her hair on end, but Jace squeezes her hand, continuing to press forward.

They reach the edge of Hell and begin to move upward, _between_ dimensions, and Clary finally finds her voice to ask the question they both are wondering. "Are—are you alive?"

Jace doesn't look at her as he speaks, his voice deep and smooth like Raziel's might be. "I don't know."

X.O.X.O.X

Jace had never noticed the golden flecks in Clary's eyes until this moment, as the setting sun streams through their shack's windows, his arms looped securely around her waist as her head tips upward in his direction. He'd never noticed the way the right side of her mouth pulled up just a little higher than the left or how her ears wiggle with the endless words flowing from her lips. He wishes he had more time to memorize every unruly curl, to find a flower the exact shade of red and tuck it behind her ear like a secret. His heart aches at the thought of her stomach swelling with new life, his hands smoothing over his unborn child, knowing he might never experience that with her. A yard full of children and then grandchildren, rocking chairs and graying hair, dances by firelight—his life with her plays out before him like a slow-motion movie. He'd taken those possibilities for granted, only to have them cruelly ripped away from both of them.

The princess has changed so much about him, so much within him. All the things that once scared him, he now yearned for. And those he once loved—combat, war—terrified him more than anything ever had. He can see it too, buried deep in her newly discovered speckled eyes, a fear rooted right into her core. Any sufferer of loss knows this feeling all too well. The one that never goes away, that nags and nags about the endless ways life can end, reminding her that in the blink of an eye anything and everything she's ever loved can be taken. He can see it in her quivering lip, feel it in her trembling hands, but her face is brave.

He'd managed to reach their ship, to fly them back to Idris, and to hole up in their shack. He'd refused to touch her at first, terrified that his power might explode from him once more, that he might lose control and do something he could never take back.

Never had his chest swelled with so much love for one person. They are two halves of a whole, fighting back with every inch of strength they possess. It leaves no time for fear. No time for sadness. Only stout resolution. There's no negotiating the terms, no skimping out. Both must do what has to be done to save Idris, though Jace knows he will do everything in his power to keep Clary from harm's way.

He doesn't tell her not to come with him because he knows he can't. She'd just leave without him, throwing herself into more danger than if they chose to fight side-by-side. Their short relationship has taught him that she is braver and stronger than any male Shadowhunter he's ever met. Himself included.

He just loses himself in the starry sky of freckles along her cheeks, pays attention to the way her breath hitches in her throat when he smooths his hand down her arm, drawing the strap of her tank top with it. He relishes in the feeling of her pulse against his lips as he butterflies kisses where her neck meets her shoulder, strands of hair tickling his cheek.

He lets her pull him to the bed but doesn't give her control as he lays her down, his mouth memorizing every patch of skin within reach. He pushes his hands beneath her top, helping her lift it over her head before it finds a home somewhere across the shack.

And then he's kissing her. Not in any way they've ever kissed before. It's a hands-ripping-at-hair, I-need-you-to-breathe kind of kiss. Her fingers pull deliciously at his golden locks as her tongue fights his for dominance. He's crushing her to him with bruising force, but the pressure pulls a moan from her throat. Her knees dig into his hips as her hands work at the buckle of his belt.

Their mouths break—not for air but so Jace can reach around and pull his t-shirt over his head—but Clary's hands never leave his skin. They follow the path of his muscles, up his abs and over his shoulders, hesitating momentarily on the shimmering marriage rune against his chest, her fingers skimming the smooth but marked area where Valentine had driven a knife.

His hand cups the back of her neck, dragging her face back to his before the fire inside him builds up, before he loses what little control he's found. She responds with vigor, wrapping her legs around his torso as his teeth latch onto her lip.

Their eyes are opened, trying to savor each fleeting glance, each emotion that crosses their partner's face. Neither wants to stop. Both refuse to speak in fear of ruining what could be their last moment together.

Jace doesn't need words to guide Clary's leggings down her silken thighs, letting them join the growing pile of clothes across the room. He doesn't need her to tell him what she wants as he removes the rest of his clothes, their heated and naked flesh fitted together like a lock and a key. Their chests rise and fall in synchronization—not able to tell where the golden one ends and the redhead one begins. They are unified, love amplified through this peculiar and amazing connection they have.

Clary finds his gaze, hers filled with so much lust and desire that he can't help but press her into the mattress, watching with satisfaction as her eyes slip shut with pleasure. His fingers tease her at first, gentle brushes on the insides of her thighs, sweeping from one side to the other, never lingering. He can't tear his eyes away as her mouth falls open, tongue coming out to wet her plump lips. His breath quickens even though he's the one working his fingers against her, watching her move with him in pure ecstasy. His thumb moves slow circles against her center, building momentum as her breaths grow shorter and faster.

She screams his name as he pulls her over the edge, the sound of pure bliss echoing off the walls as he watches her descend from her high. It's the only word they've spoken since their arrival, and it doesn't disappoint him.

Her fingernails dig into his biceps as she comes to, positioning him between her bent knees as he suckles at her neck, hard enough to leave blossoming purple marks. There are no words to describe the feeling of becoming one with the woman he loves, to have her supple body beneath his, rocking to meet his thrusts with hooded eyes that only leave his to screw shut in pure pleasure, to have his name fall from her pink tongue like a mantra, chanted in rhythm with their motions, to feel the sweat slowly coat their bodies, letting them slide together without even friction to slow them down.

Clary makes him feel whole. She makes him feel important. She makes him feel worthy of the love she's giving him. It's these feelings that drive them over the edge together, her fingers squeezing his as they whisper _I love you_ into the heated air between them, like the looming sunrise isn't of concern, like they are just two people hopelessly and helplessly in love and nothing can ever drive them apart. It causes them to make love again and again until their bodies refuse to move another inch, sleep overcoming them as Jace holds her in the protection of his arms, like the years of weightlifting can fend off any enemy that comes their way.

"You are the best thing that's ever happened to me. You know that, right?" Jace asks as the indigo sky begins to fade into light. She shifts in his arms, angling her neck to peer straight into his soul. He wonders what she sees. Does she see the unconditional and irrevocable love he has for her? Does she see the shielded dread he holds for the future? Does she see the uncontrollable inferno that's infused with his DNA, threatening to incinerate the planet with one loss of his temper?

"I know." Her voice is quiet, resolute. It's not conceited how she says it. It's soft, in a way that tells him she feels the same, that though their lives are far from how they'd been before the marriage, it was all worth it for what time they had together.

They don't need to say _I love you_ as they redress, helping each other do the snaps of their gear and collect weapons for their belt. They don't need to profess their undying love as Jace fires up the Giant Turtle, his right hand finding hers between the seats. They don't even need to say it as they reach the bunker, his airplane prepared for the flight ahead of them.

They can feel it. Even through the heat of the fire that fills Jace, even through the fear in each beat of their hearts, the love hits them in strong, unyielding waves, and Clary knows that for once the power of love _will_ conquer all.

X.O.X.O.X

The stars streak by at a frightening pace, Jace's bird carrying them at hyper-speed through the depths of space, toward their future, toward answers, toward the inevitable. Jace won't look at her from the driver's seat, but his hand envelops hers as she reached out to him. He's afraid. She can see it. Over time she's found herself capable of peeling back Jace's walls, much like removing layers of an oil painting until only the raw structure is on display. The cues of his emotions are minute, one reason he's so difficult to read, one of his defense mechanisms. Had she not spent countless hours agonizing over his face, memorizing the planes of it, sketching all the angles, she'd never be able to despipher the difference between focus and annoyance, between anger and fear.

His emotions are housed mostly in his eyes, the way he averts his gaze, makes excuses not to meet her eyes. It's the slight downward slant of his mouth, the concentrated crease between his brows. "You're afraid," she states, wanting him to express his emotions. He's become so open with her lately, so vulnerable in his arms, refusing to hide in his shelter any longer, releasing the recluse that rejected his feelings, using them to fuel his fight rather than live his life.

"Yes," he responds, honestly and without hesitation. He still won't catch her stare, fiddling with the controls instead. She doesn't have a chance to ask him why before the words tumble from his mouth, explaining himself to her like these emotions need validation, like the warrior in him isn't allowed to be afraid. "I've become the very thing I've sworn to destroy, Clary. This…this… _ability_ —it's unnatural. I am a monster." Clary squeezes his hand, and when he finally inclines his head, his golden eyes are bloodshot, staring distantly as he chews the inside of his cheek.

"You are _not_ a monster, Jace." The words are curt, strong as she wills him to finally look at her. It's fleeting, but he does, his shoulders slumping from the tense posture. And in that moment, Jace Herondale, King of Idris, looks completely and utterly defeated. "The Silent Brothers will understand this power. They'll help you control you fire…help you use it!" Jace scoffs, dropping her hand. It hangs limply by her side, rejected, as he takes up the controls once more.

"So you're going to weaponize me, Clarissa? Turn me into an object? A means to an end?" He bites out the words, and they have the intended effect. They sting, piercing through the thin armor she's concocted like arrow tips, digging into her chest. She knows his game now, though, that he's doing this because he thinks it's the only way to keep her safe, from Valentine, from _him_. He'll push her away despite her protests, despite his desires. Old habits die hard.

"That is _not_ what I meant." She considers her next words carefully, concoting the perfect sentence to diffuse the situation, to bring Jace back from the dark past he's slipping into. "Besides, you're already a weapon, what with being the best Shadowhunter to every grace this galaxy." Now he cracks a ghost of a smile, quirking up one eyebrow.

" _This_ galaxy? Oh, how you insult me, princess." She allows herself to laugh, trying desperately to ignore how close they are to the silent city, how imminent the answers are. "I'm sorry, Clary. I just…I can't lose you. Not again." His eyes are downcast, but he's still able to stop her when she opens her mouth to respond. "And if the Silent Brothers believe I'm a danger to others, you have to leave me. I will not be your destruction."

Clary rolls her eyes, grabbing his chin a bit harshly to pull his face against hers. His lips are unyielding at first, but soon, he softens, returning her gently kisses. "You really do have an Edward Cullen complex."

"I don't understand how _Twilight_ was able to make the migration with our ancestors," Jace says with a shrug. The bird slows its pace, a gray, desolate planet taking ship on the sun's horizon. "I love you," Jace tells her as Church initiates the landing sequence, and Clary can't help but feel that it sounds more like goodbye.

* * *

 _Not out of turbulent waters yet! Getting so close though!_

 _Review?_

 _All My Love_

 _~BallinBlonde21_


	22. Hero's Heroine

_Hello, My Lovelies! Sorry for the delayed updates! I've been out of the country, and now I'm very under the weather. I am able to post SW updates because they're already written, but I don't know when I will have the energy to update Dancing With Demons. Hopefully very soon! I'm optimistic! Anyways, please enjoy Shadow Wars updates for now as we hustle toward the endgame for our favorite couple!_

* * *

 _The Shadow Wars_

 _Chapter 22: Hero's Heroine_

* * *

 _Songs:_

 _Part 1: Take on the World - You Me At Six_

 _Part 2: Unworthy – Vancouver Sleep Clinic_

 _Part 3: Lose My Head - Volunteer_

 _Part 4: Afraid - The Neighbourhood_

* * *

Clary's never visited the Silent City, but she's heard stories—horrific ones. The Silent City is built with the bones of Shadowhunters, literally embedded into the walls and held together with mortar. The skies are always shrouded in clouds, and the ground is made of dirt, creating a rather monochromatic landscape as Jace lands before the cavernous, black opening to the city. Jace's boots kick up dust as he drops gracefully from the hatch, reaching his hands up to help her down. Rolling her eyes, she brushes them away, landing in a crouch and flashing him an annoyed glare. She's no damsel. Jace merely laughs, lacing his fingers through hers. His wedding band feels cool against her skin, a comfortable reminder of who she's here with and what they've overcome. Jace squeezes her hand as figures appear at the edge of the opening. Their hands simultaneously lift to lower the hoods of their parchment robes, four eyeless faces stare in their direction.

 _Jonathon and Clarissa Herondale_ , the voices greet in their heads. _We've been expecting you_. Clary recognizes Brother Zachariah, though the remaining three are all startlingly similar with their pale, bald heads. They part, creating a pathway for Clary and Jace to take into the city. She'd always expected there to be a difficult entrance, with secret passageways and deathly traps, but with the wall of Silent Brothers, she can see that is the only deterrent they need. Though blind, the Silent Brothers can reach into the depths of one's mind, using their secret fears against them, turning them insane. One unwelcomed step into the city is suicide.

 _I am Brother Enoch_ , one says, sweeping his arm to the side to direct them down a dark passage. Clary glances at Jace, who's peculiarly focused on where he's placing his feet. _I've been studying you for quite some time_.

"Me?" Jace responds, looking to his left at where the brother has fallen into step with him.

 _Both of you, Mr. Herondale_ , Brother Enoch responds casually, Clary's heart leaping into her throat.

 _Why me?_ She wonders, forgetting the Silent Brothers are inside her mind, hearing every nervous thought.

 _There is much you don't know._ She looks at Jace to see if he's received that message, too, but his face shows no sign of it. Suddenly, her heart can't seem to steady in her chest, hammering unevenly as a bone-encrusted path opens to a library of yellowing scrolls. Clary doesn't understand what use the Brothers have for these records, as they cannot read them. She shields these thoughts, worried they might insult the men who'd welcomed them into their city.

 _Please be seated_ , Brother Zachariah speaks finally, gesturing toward an intricately carved wooden table at the center of the room. The ceilings are vaulted, lit with candles that illuminate the remains of those long before her, warriors in their own right, fighting different wars, believing in different causes. She wonders how these men and women could have lain their lives down as a means to eradicate equality among species, to fight for something so unjust. _There is no just war, Clarissa_ , Brother Zachariah interjects calmly. _Morality is an ever-changing theory. No battle has ever been nor will be justified by the morals of the future._

Jace, oblivious to this conversation, seats himself beside her, splaying his fingers on the table before him. "You must know why we've sought your council." The Silent Brothers nod in unison, their bond stronger than that of any parabatai, any marriage.

 _You, Jonathon Herondale, are just one brushstroke in a bigger painting. As are you, my Queen_. Brother Zachariah's words are soft, his attention directed at the young royalty. _But for you to understand, we must travel back in time._ Clary gasps as an image is projected in her mind, not one of her own, but from Brother Zachariah's eyes. He's younger, and his reflection in the window shows a thin, wiry boy with silver hair and dark, almond eyes. He's focused on a woman with long, brown hair and peculiar gray irises. She smiles at him.

"Hello, Jem."

"Tessa," he nods in her direction. _Tessa Gray?_ Brother Zachariah confirms her thoughts just as another boy enters the picture.

His hair is as black as midnight, his eyes as blue as the noon sky. Though his coloring is unusual, there's something familiar about this boy, his easy smirk, his strong jaw, the way he carries himself, like he's upholding a certain image while walling off his true self. "William!" the woman yells as he pulls on a lock of her hair, flashing her a grin. The woman snatches the ring from his finger, sliding it onto her own. That's when Clary sees it—the Herondale Crest.

Tessa morphs into a mirror image of the boy before her, narrowing her now blue eyes. "I am William Herondale, and I just want the world to know that I am a bumbling buffoon." She removes the ring, shifting back to herself and dropping the metal into Will's hand with a glare.

William just smirks slyly, returning the ring to his finger. "You can't tell me you didn't have the urge to strip naked and check me out."

"WILLIAM!" The memory dissipates as Tessa thacks Will on the head, and Clary resurfaces to find Jace staring blankly at Brother Zachariah.

"Was that my…" he trails off, swallowing heavily.

 _Before I became Brother Zachariah, my parabatai was William Herondale, your great-great-great grandfather._ Jace's brow furrows, confused.

"What does this have to do with—"

 _Your great-great-great grandmother was Tessa Gray, half-warlock, half-Shadowhunter._ Jace sputters, Sebastian's words undoubtedly returning to both their minds. _She was no demon, Jonathon. She was the purest soul I've ever come across, and I've been alive for many centuries._

"Is this why I have this ability? Because I'm part warlock?"

 _Yes and no_. The Silent Brother qualifies before sending the pair into another memory. This time, he's Brother Zachariah, dressed in thin, parchment robes. Clary's father, young with eyes more blue than gray, stands before him, a couple with golden hair situated at his left.

"Please, Brother Zachariah, you must help us," Luke is pleading, and Brother Zachariah's gaze drops to the blond man's feet, where a boy with a mop of red-tinged hair is fiddling with a blade, completely uninterested in the conversation. When Jem looks back up, Clary can see the terror in the couple's eyes. A hand reaches up and tugs on the woman's skirt.

"Son, introduce yourself to Brother Zachariah." The boy smiles a toothy grin, a gap where his right tooth should have been. He doesn't shy away in fear like Clary had done when she'd first met the Silent Brothers. In fact, he reaches out a dimpled hand, his face solemn and professional.

"Hello, I am Jonathon Christopher Herondale." This time, Clary is ripped from the memory as Jace rises, his palms slamming against the wooden table, the sound reverberating through the cavernous room.

"What are you showing me?" he demands, his eyes hard. Clary can see the fire moving just beneath the surface of his skin, glowing golden waves. His veins are bulging from his arms, his mucles tense. She presses her palm against his forearm, ignoring how it burns. His head whirls to hers, slowly relaxing, the fire returning to within. He doesn't have to say thanks. She can see it in his eyes, feel it in her chest. "Are you telling me my family was Idrisian? That I'm not from Alicante?"

 _That is exactly what I am telling you, Jonathon._

"My name is Jace." Brother Zachariah nods in acknowledgement, and Clary ensures her skin is always in contact with Jace's hoping it will keep his fire at bay.

 _The Herondales were a noble family, very close to King Lucian_. Jace's eyes flicker to Clary's, ever worried about her, wanting to share her grief. She nods minutely, jerking her head so he returns his attention forward. _Then, something happened. Their child, with his mother's strawberry-blond curls and his father's blue eyes, fell into a deep slumber. Even I could not awaken you, Jace._ Jem shows the pair an image of a slumbering boy, covered in a protective blue haze, Magnus's watchful eye from the corner. His chest rises and falls rhythmically, but he does not move. _When he awoke four months later, he had been changed._ Clary can now see the same boy, but with the the golden halo she knew so well. There's a smile in his golden eyes, an innocence she'd never known them to have. They radiated the pure joy of an untroubled heart.

"What. Happened?" Jace is tense again, his words forced out of his clenched teeth, seething. Brother Zachariah is uprooting his entire existance. Everything Jace had thought he was is becoming a lie, an intricately woven past to hide the truth.

 _Clarissa was born_. It's Clary's turn to freeze up, her green eyes widening like saucers. She's not supposed to be a part of this story. What role can she possibly play in all of this? _I was there because the queen was giving birth. It was complicated one, very…different._ Clary wants to spout off a list of questions, bombard Jem with every thought that crosses her mind, but she refrains, taking a deep breath to maintain her composure.

 _At the time of the young queen's birth, Valentine had been dabbling in dark magic. He was seeking a spell to increase his power, to become the ultimate Shadowhunter. And he'd found it, long before either of you were alive._ Clary gnaws on her lip, and Jace clasps his hand around her jittery fingers. His touch is cool, calmed after his outburst. _It never worked for him, but he persisted, intent on succeeding. When you were born, Clarissa, there was finally a vessel to counter his power, to balance the darkness with light._

"I can't possibly," she stammers for the words. "I mean, I don't have any powers…I'm just… _me_."

Clary feels that if Brother Zachariah could smile, he would be, as his laughter resounds in her head. She'd never witnessed a Silent Brother laughing, but it's not something she'd like to experience again. It's like walking down a lonely hallway to hear a noise behind you. _You underestimate yourself, Clarissa. Valentine experimented on your mother, unknowingly while she was pregnant. You, my dear, are more angel than any of us in this room, more powerful._

Clary wants to scream in his face that there's no possible way, that Jace is the one with the internal fire, that she can barely walk a straight line without tripping over her own two feet. There's no possible way she could be stronger than them. _Your refusal to accept this is refreshing. Power is dangerous in the wrong hands, but I believe Raziel did right putting it with the two of you._ Jace's brows furrow, and Clary can tell he's still wondering what this has to do with his condition. Brother Zachariah senses this as well, bringing the story back around. _With a power as great as Clarissa's, it was necessary to protect it, to guarantee that she could never be used for harm, that nobody could turn her to darkness. Raziel entrusted this task to you, Jace. He gave you that heavenly fire when you were a young boy, knowing it was your fate to become an unbeatable warrior. You hadn't had a reason to use it until now_.

"How did my family end up in Alicante, then? If I was supposed to protect the princess, why was I shipped to a different planet?" Brother Zachariah nods at Brother Enoch, who begins to speak in a deeper, slower voice.

 _It was dangerous to have two powerful Shadowhunters so close. Lucian had long ago been stripped of his marks, and Jocelyn covered hers. It was easy to pretend that Clarissa was a human, protecting her from anyone Valentine sent to look for the counterpart to his power. She was a baby. She didn't need you there just yet._ _We sent your family to Alicante to protect you. There was no way to draw attention to yourself on that dusty farming planet. It was the perfect place until Valentine heard of Jocelyn's passing. He had no idea which planet she called home, so he sent men to each one. They slaughtered and pillaged many communities, leaving nothing but death and destruction in their wake._

Clary wants to look at him, but she can't meet his probing gaze. It's her fault he's suffering, that he's the last of his line, that his family was brutally murdered by none other than her father. _It was too close of a call, so Robert Lightwood was sent to collect you, to raise you._ She doesn't want to see Jace shattering all over again, realizing his current family hadn't taken him in by own free choice, but rather as the duty of a Shadowhunter. _I must apologize. This is a lot to process. Brother Jeremiah, please show the King and Queen their chamber_. Clary begrudgingly lifts her body to follow, though it protests every movement. _She_ had been chosen to protect the universe from Valentine? The fate of the universe rests in her ability to destroy him? Her footsteps are slow, heavy, as she watches where she places each one, following Brother Jeremiah's flowing robes.

She's dismayed when they finally stop, when a heavy, wooden door is pushed open, granting them access to a sweeping bedroom. The walls, thankfully, are not made of bone, but rather covered in dark, red wallpaper. A dark, wooden bed with a crimson canopy sits in the middle of the room, thick cream quilts looking more inviting than they should. Clary still hasn't looked at Jace, despite his several obvious attempts to get her attention. She doesn't feel worthy of his love after this sham. She feels dirty. She feels like a fraud. How can he possibly share a bed with the woman who gave him nothing but trouble and heartache?

"Princess, would you _please_ look at me?" It's his seventh desperate plea for her to stop ignoring him. "I'm sorry if I've done something to upset you, Clary. I had no idea you were involved in this. I never wanted to hurt you—"

She turns then, mouth opening in disbelief. "You are apologizing to me? After finding out that I'm the reason there's fire in your veins? That I'm the reason your family moved to Alicante where they were…were…" She can't even bring herself to say it as her eyes fall to where she's wringing her hands. Jace is having none of it as he gently lifts her chin. Her eyes are shimmering, and he runs his thumb across her cheek.

"I'm thankful for this ability, Clary. I'm so grateful that it allowed me to save you, and I am honored that it was given to me for that purprose." He massages her bottom lip from her teeth. "I can't say what it would have been like if my parents were still alive. I can't say that my father wouldn't have been killed in battle. I also can't say that I would have been there to rescue you so long ago." He pushes his fingers into her curls, and she sniffles. "I wouldn't change a thing about my life, Clary. Not when it got me here today…with you." She can't take the distance between them then, bringing his lips down against hers by looping her hands around his neck. There's so much emotion, but it's different. It's not only grief and fear. It's truth and humility and thankfulness. It is love in it's purest form. "I guess I do believe in soulmates," he whipsers against her lips as he lays her gently onto the bed. "And, for the record, you put fire in more places than my veins." He waggles his eyebrows suggestively, and Clary slaps weakly at his chest.

"You _had_ to ruin the moment, didn't you?" He just shrugs.

"Would it be me if I didn't seize an opportunity when it presented itself?" She rolls her eyes, yanking on his shirt so he comes crashing down on top of her.

"Just kiss me, you idiot."

X.O.X.O.X

The air in the room is thick with truth as Clary awakens in Jace's warm embrace. The Silent Brother's words rest heavily on her shoulders. It's the first time someone has told her this full history, something she'd always desired from those who knew. Yet she's finding it surprisingly difficult to believe in their account of events. There's no possible way Clary is the angelic equivalent of Valentine's wickedness. Had Brother Zachariah claimed Jace was the chosen one, she'd have accepted it in a heartbeat. Jace is strong, unbreakable, unwavering in his dedication to Raziel. He's trained his entire life, taking his warrior oath at the youngest recorded age. Clary had only recently learned how to wield a blade, her kill count in the low teens while Jace's surmounts thousands.

"Stop thinking so loudly," Jace grumbles, rolling over to pull her closer into his chest, his hot breath stirring the curls on the crown of her head. The real, white sunlight of dawn is pouring through the glass panes in the bedroom, flooding the room in a warm, unearthly glow. Jace has his eyes buried in her hair, shielding himself from the fight soon to come. She doesn't move, allowing him this one last moment of peace, knowing that until Valentine's head is on a spike, these moments will be few and far between.

"Jace, how is it possible that I could be the one from the prophecy?" Jace shifts beside her, his head lifting from the pillow to look at her with luminous, loving eyes. "You've seen me in battle. I'm not the strongest, the fastest, the bravest. It would make so much more sense if you were the prophetic son." Jace toys with a lock of hair by her ear, a small smile playing at his lips.

"Power manifests itself in different ways, princess. And _you_ are so much braver than you believe, stronger than you seem, and smarter than you think." Clary catches his hand as it drifts down and brushes along her collarbone, shooting him an incredulous look.

"Did you just quote Winnie the Pooh?" Jace bites his lip in the sexiest, most seductive way she's ever seen, holding in the laughter that spills out through his eyes.

"I am secure enough in my masculinity to confirm that statement." And suddenly, his proximity is too much, his musky scent overwhelming and intoxicating as she clutches his hand like it's the only thing tethering her to this earth. There's a shift in the room, the air no longer thick but charged, her lust permeating every inch. Jace's body responds to her desires, his eyes darkening almost imperceptibly. "Clary," he groans in a warning tone as she shifts closer. She's absently aware that the bed beneath them belongs to the Silent Brothers, that the silken sheets pooling at her waist are not the white ones from their bed at home, but she _needs_ this. She needs to feel Jace against her, to remind her that they are in this together. She needs to know that their love isn't just because Jace was designed to be her protector, that regardless of Raziel's interference, they would have found each other in the void of life, that even if she weren't part of some prophecy, Jace would have awaken the warrior within her, and she would have used it to bust down his walls.

Last night, she'd barely slept. Her mind was consumed with thoughts of her father, of how he must have worked tirelessly to hide her true identity, especially after the death of her mother. He'd loved her endlessly and unconditionally, despite her lineage, despite her hateful comments toward him. Even her marriage to Jace, one that she'd long ago believed to be a political move, was instead one made to protect her further, to bind her to the man made only to keep her safe, alive. This same man is currently embracing her, looking down through thick lashes, his hooded gaze trained on her open mouth. She closes the millimeters between them, electricity running a race through her veins. Jace's skin is heating, his life-saving fire swirling beneath the surface of his skin, ready to lash out at anyone threatening to destroy this moment. She lets him flip her onto her back, her fingers grappling at the muscles on his shoulders as he hovers carefully above her.

And when he finally unites them, she knows that their bond runs deeper than prophecies. Their love could outdo fate, could override destiny. She knows that in any alternate reality, she and Jace would have found each other, that a pull this strong would refuse to be ignored. "I love you, Jace," she whispers into the skin of his neck as he pulls her over the edge. "Now and forever, I will love you."

X.O.X.O.X

The tone is somber as the Silent Brothers watch the pair depart, drifting behind them almost lifelessly through the monochromatic hallways until they reach an opening, Jace's golden bird rising proudly from the horizon. Jace pulls Clary to a stop, and they turn around as one unit, offering the brothers a silent nod. _Good luck. You will need it._ Clary doesn't know whose voice is speaking to them as they turn in a motion of sweeping parchment robes, their footsteps silent against the paved floor, disappearing into the shadows of the Silent City. "That was creepy," Clary mutters as she and Jace begin to climb the steep hill out of the city. Jace grunts in response, his mind too riddled with strategy and coordinates and passcodes to possibly form a coherent sentence. The only chipper response she gets is from Church, who whirrs a greeting to his creator, dropping the hatch for the pair. Clary boosts herself upward, not bothering to complain when Jace's hand cups her ass to push her the last few inches. She could have easily hauled herself through, but Jace helping her had become almost autonomous to him, and her complaints would just bog down the checklist of items he's attempting to memorize.

Jace follows closely behind, slamming the hatch into place with his foot all while muttering to himself. Honestly, Clary's mind is also filled with information, most of it instilling fear into her very core. The words of the Silent Brothers weigh profoundly on her mind. Millions of lives rest in her palms, her success crucial to her people's continued existence. As soon as she'd been able to separate herself from Jace long enough to get dressed, Brother Jeremiah had arrived at their door to escort them to a parting breakfast. The breakfast turned into an extended strategizing session, lasting well into the afternoon, leaving Clary and Jace to fly into the dying daylight.

 _How do we defeat him? My father,"_ Clary had asked, the words like poison on her tongue, leaving a bad taste as she awaited a response. She'd known it couldn't possibly be easy to destroy a man with so much demonic energy. Nothing with Valentine Morgenstern ever seemed to be simple. It always ended in countless casualties and heartbreak. His planning skills were unprecedented, his armies never-ending. She'd never seen the man himself in combat, but she knew him to be cold, calculating, and unhesitant in his brutality. He was the exact opposite of Jace, whose battle was governed by his desire to protect.

 _A power like his,_ Jem had voiced in their minds, _it's very dangerous. If Valentine should die, the darkness would be released, seeking the nearest vassal to overtake._ Clary and Jace had exchanged startled looks. Should the darkness fill one of them, they'd never be strong enough to end the other. Before they could ask another question, Jem produces a wooden box with an infinity symbol branded onto the side.

 _A Pyxis?_ Jace mused, gipping the box with a blasé expression. _A Pyxis will defeat Valentine Morgenstern_? He turned it over in his hand, while Clary marveled at the intricate bindings of the small box. She'd heard about this weapon, a box that could store a demon's consciousness, but she'd never seen one. They are very rare, more so since the migration to Idris. Much of the Shadowhunter weapons were left behind or lost on the trip, and with a lack of a demon problem, not many of these were forged.

 _A Pyxis can house Valentine's demonic energy only after you've defeated him._ Even with his eyes sewn shut, Clary could see Jem watching the box with a certain nostalgia. _This particular box belonged to Edmund Herondale, William's father._ Jace froze from where he was spinning the Pyxis carelessly in his hand. It's easy to see the way his eyes light up when his heritage is mentioned. He's been without Lightwoods for so long, he'd nearly forgotten he had a history separate of theirs.

 _So how should we kill him?_ Clary had asked again, her first question gone unanswered. If Jem had eyebrows, Clary believed he would have been quirking one in her direction at her impatience.

 _That, my dear queen, is where things get tricky_.

Cue Jace, currently pushing buttons to lock onto the arbitrary coordinates given by Brother Enoch. He's entirely too focused to notice Clary dozing off in the passenger's seat. She really needs to stay awake, attentive for what is to come, but she'd barely slept last night, what with worrying about her destiny and her future and Jace. It's all crashing down on her at once, the lack of coffee in the Silent City hitting her hard. "Sleep, love," Jace murmurs gently, pushing her hair behind her ear as she lifts her heavy eyelids to find him watching her. Maybe she'd underestimated his multitasking skills as uses one hand to guide the ship and the other to cup her cheek, creating a pillow for her to rest her head into.

"I need to be awake," she protests, weakly, "to help you." Jace laughs, dusting a kiss across her forehead. She snuggles into his touch, the darkness of space illuminated only by the glow of the ship's dashboard.

"We have a few hours of downtime, princess. And you'll be of no help if you're asleep on your feet." His words are gently, persuasive. When she lifts her lids again, he's leaned back in his chair, the bird controlled entirely by church. He's exhausted too. There are bags beneath his eyes, though they're not bloodshot like before their arrival at the Silent City.

"I'll sleep if you sleep," she murmurs, gripping his hand as she rises to her feet. She's only ever lain on the bed of his ship once, as Jace tended her wounds and she held onto life by a thin strand. Now, those memories don't bother her as she stretches out beside Jace, his arms cradling her tightly to his chest. The engines hum beneath them, the quiet of space soothing and lulling them both to sleep.

X.O.X.O.X

Jace has already lifted himself from her embrace and positioned himself in the cockpit by the time she stirs awake, his silver headset nestled against his curls as he whispers commands to his loyal little droid above. There's something intoxicating about this view from behind, the flexed muscles of his shirtless back rippling beneath his skin as he steers the ship, seven planets looming in the distance, each a different vibrant color as they circle a burning, amber sun, spinning slowly to heat every crevice on their surfaces. There's serenity as he leans back in his seat, turning his head slightly to see her sitting up in bed, clutching the blankets beneath her chin. He gives her a gentle but distracted smile, his eyes shifting to bore into the set of planets with penetrating confusion.

"Where are we?" she yawns sleepily, rubbing her left eye as she pads barefoot to her co-pilot seat, plopping heavily beside him. He's studying a few papers sprawled on the dash before him, his fingers tracing the thick lines of the map. He taps his finger against a grid-point a few times, indicating their location. Clary's brows furrow. "This shows only one planet here," she announces the obvious, resting a fingertip against the circular symbol in the map. Instead of ridiculing her, Jace merely nods, as flustered by this recent discovery as her.

"This was the last known location of the Adamant Citadel." Without warning, Jace slams his fist against the papers, scattering them onto the floor. His shoulders heave with each frustrated breath, his hope failing him. Clary rests a hand on his tense shoulder, but there's not much else she can give him. Her own hope is faltering. They have the Herondale's Pyxis, but it means little if they cannot kill Valentine. Just like there is only one person capable of killing Valentine, there is only one weapon strong enough to do it. Forged only by the Iron Sisters, the weapon has been seethed and tempered with angel's blood, a surefire downfall to anyone radiating demonic power. "What the fuck are we supposed to do now?" His words are bitter, but not directed at her. He leans into her touch, struggling to calm the fire within him.

"It must be here, Jace."

"There are seven planets, Clary. Who's to say which is the correct one and the other six won't kill us?" There's thinly veiled fear in his words, and she knows it's not the loss of his own life he worries about. Clary presses a kiss to his cheek, hoping to relieve some of the tension in his body.

"Let's think about this, Jace. If I were an Iron Sister, I wouldn't want anyone to find my home." Her eyes scour the selection before her. The colors are all bright swirled marble of vivid rainbow tones. Each looks equally as welcoming, ironically making all of them unwelcoming. They vary in sizes, the sun and shadows hitting different angles and lighting different sides. They orbit at different rates but spin on their axis in the same tempo. That's when Clary sees it. "Jace, the shadowing is all wrong."

Jace gives her an incredulous look, not comprehending. " _What_?"

"Well, according to the physics of light waves and the approximated angle of incidence, the illuminated side of the planets should be changing as they spin and as they orbit." Jace's eyes widen as he leans forward in his seat.

"But they're all staying the same," he muses, almost in awe. "It's a glamour." He stares, unblinking for a few moments, a vein protruding on his forehead with concentration, a muscle jumping in his jaw. When he finally closes his eyes, he gasps in frustration. "I can't see past it." Clary had been trying to peel it back, too, but to no avail.

"Maybe we don't have to. One planet," she points to the map, "one sun."

Jace snorts. "You want me to fly us into the sun?" Clary rolls her eyes at his skepticism.

"It's not actually a sun, Jace. It's not giving off light."

"We can't afford to be wrong about this, princess," he warns, his finger hovering over the thrusters' lever.

"I'm not." Her body lurches and is pressed against the seat as Jace closes the distance between them and the solar system. The space around them gets brighter and brighter as they near the sun, and Jace yells as the air begins to heat up. He continues to propel them forward until they are enveloped in a blinding white light, the ship slowing to almost a standstill as Clary grips Jace's forearm, her fingernails drawing blood from his skin.

When the light fades, she finds the bird has landed safely on graying pavement, weeds growing up through the cracks. The air around them is filled with a fine mist. "Jace," Clary whispers in a warning tone as the fog begins to take form, three figures emerging from thin air. The hatch opens on its own accord, and Jace doesn't hesitate.

"Wait here," he instructs, just before his head disappears below the ship. For once, Clary has no desire to disobey, watching from behind the glass window with her heart hammering in her throat. The three are women, wearing long, white gowns that seem to be made of the mist itself. Their waists and wrists are bound with thin coils of wire, hoods pulled securely over their heads. Peculiar runes mark their necks, curling up onto their chins and cheeks. Their eyes are hard and glowing orange. Jace appears in her frame of view moments later, all gold in this world of silver, unarmed as he stops before them, keeping a safe distance. Through the hatch, she can hear their eerie and unenthusiastic greeting.

"I am Sister Abigail," the center one speaks with a smooth, even voice. "Welcome to the Adamant Citadel. We've been expecting you."

* * *

 _Drop me a review!_

 _All My Love_

 _~BallinBlonde21_


	23. Super Clary

_Here's an update! We're nearing the finish line! I hope you're all still enjoying this story!_

* * *

 _The Shadow Wars_

 _Chapter 23: Super Clary_

* * *

 _Songs:_

 _Part 1: Never Too Late - Three Days Grace_

 _Part 2: One More Light - Linkin Park_

 _Part 3: Cut the Cord - Shinedown_

 _Part 4: Let Me Touch Your Fire - ARIZONA_

* * *

"Why are people always expecting us?" Clary whispers, stretching on her tiptoes to reach Jace's ear. Luckily, he leans down to meet her halfway, otherwise the Iron Sisters definitely would have heard. "It's creepy." He offers her a halfhearted shrug before linking their arms together, ensuring she falls into step with him and matches his pace. She has to squint her eyes to see the swishing skirts of the Iron Sisters though the fog before them, not bothering to slow down and check that the pair is still following. The sisters had told them that getting lost in the fog was a death sentence. It disorients the victim until they are unable to tell which direction they are travelling and from which way they'd just come. It's a precautionary measure that the sisters had to take when the Mortal Instruments had been acquired and placed in their possession for safekeeping. If visitors happen to stumble upon their home, they shall never leave, especially if there is malice in their heart.

"We did not know if you would pass the entry test," Sister Magdalena muses as the group pulls to stop before a crumbling stone wall. She lowers her hood to reveal a head of auburn hair, pulled in at the nape of her neck. Her glowing eyes appraise them, undoubtedly skeptical that Clary can be the prophetic princess. As her gaze shifts to Jace, she nods subtly, deciding that even if Clary is not strong enough, Jace is. "Only the worthy are allowed to succeed." Clary can't help but feel there's an insult in those words as Magdalena's eyes cut to hers once more, lighting the fog on fire. Jace brushes it off easily, eagerly escaping the fog as the creaky wooden door to the Citadel is open for them. Magdalena steps to the side, allowing the Herondales to pass through behind Sister Abagail, who hasn't spoken since her initial greeting.

The Adamant Citadel is not as eerie as the Silent City. Built of stone blocks rather than bones, it is bright, filled with colorful tapestries and lit torches to guide them down the hallways, lined with long, woven rugs. Women pass by in their robes, nodding their heads in a silent greeting, each with the same, peculiar eyes. Clary can't decide if she prefers this to the eyeless Silent Brothers. Jace squeezes her fingers comfortingly as they turn sharply to the left, the hallway expanding into a grand room. There are cases and cases of weapons, lining the walls, filling the center. Clary can see Jace's face light up as he steps into _the_ armory, the birthplace of all his favorite devices. Sister Abagail turns to face them finally, offering a tight-lipped smile. "The Silent Brothers have informed us of your quest. We will help you prepare."

A few ladies gather behind her, silent and stoic as she whispers orders to them. Clary can't decipher the words, and Jace is too distracted to pay attention. This foreign place has her uneasy, wondering how they are expected to simply trust these women to aid their cause. Valentine has moles everywhere, and the possibility exists that one has been able to infiltrate the Adamant Citadel. Still, what choice do they have? They need the Iron Sisters' weaponry to kill Valentine. There's no other option, no plan B. "Please, follow me," a woman with long, blonde hair says in a calm, quiet voice. Her orange eyes never meet theirs as she weaves them through the rows of seraph blades and arrows. Whispers follow where they walk, but Sister Abagail's stern looks quiet them. She gestures for the pair to step onto a raised platform, about six inches off the ground, a solemn nod at Clary's questioning glance.

"We will begin by outfitting you in new gear." Clary looks downward at the frayed seams of her current gear, at the holes in Jace's. Jace moves to deny, and Clary knows how sentimental this gear is to him, how it has survived through countless battles with him, how it once belonged to his father.

"We will return your old gear, too," Sister Abagail insists, almost reading Jace's thoughts. This quiets him, and he allows the women to undo the snaps of his shirt, leaving him bare-chested in all his scarred glory. He looks...uncomfortable, and Clary is reminded that he is ashamed of some of his scars, that he believes they are his signs of weakness. "What is this?" Abagail asks suddenly, her hand stretched out beside the skin of his left hip, where she'd drawn that special rune so many nights ago.

"Clary gave it to me," Jace says casually, though he shudders under the strange woman's touch. "Leave us!" Abagail's booming voice startles Clary, but the women seem accustomed to it, quickly shuffling out of the room to leave the trio alone. Abagail's calloused fingers still trace the lines of the strange rune, brows furrowing in an attempt to understand its origin, its meaning. "Do you know who I am?" she asks suddenly, though it doesn't sound righteous. They both shake their heads, and Abagail nods, putting distance between herself and Jace's rune. "I am Abagail Shadowhunter. My younger brother was Jonathon Shadowhunter."

"But that means you're—" Clary begins without thinking, clapping at hand over her mouth realizing her comment could be thought of as rude. Abagail, seemingly shaking the stiff, uninterested demeanor from earlier, gives her a supportive smile.

"Much like Silent Brothers, Iron Sisters do not age." They are standing before the direct bloodline of the first Shadowhunter, and yet, she seems to be the one in awe. "Raziel told Jonathon when he created the Shadowhunters that their sole purpose was to protect humankind from demons." This is the story they've all heard the first day of classes. Whether human, Nephilim, or downworlder, the words are always the same. Jace is just as lost as she is, staring blankly at this woman with fire for eyes. "I've dedicated my life to proving the women are just as powerful as men, and here you are." She's trailed off, digressed into some sort of dreamlike state as she stares into Clary's eyes.

"Excuse me, but what are you saying?" There's a bit of an edge in Jace's voice, his fire moving beneath his skin, capturing Abagail's attention once more. She eyes the swirling patterns of Jace's entrapped fire before returning her attention to the room, her mouth falling slightly ajar.

"That's what it does," she whispers, leaning in for a closer look.

"What _what_ does?" Jace demands, snapping the Iron Sister back to attention once more. She doesn't look flustered at his impatience, like nothing can puncture her awestruck expression.

"The rune—it's awakened your heavenly fire." She grabs Clary's hand suddenly, inspecting Clary's thin, pale fingers. Clary can see Jace is struggling to contain his protectiveness, so Clary awkwardly pulls herself from the woman's grip. "I apologize, I—"

"Can you please just tell us what is going on?" Clary qualifies, gripping Jace's hot arm, willing away his power.

"Of course. Of course. Sometimes I let my excitement get the best of me." She dusts her hands off on the front of her gown, closing her eyes to settle herself. Jace and Clary exchange a wild glance, wondering what they've gotten themselves into. "Raziel told Jonathon one day the Nephilim would become power hungry, war would be waged, ending in shaky peace, only to erupt into war again." Her eyes are distant, as if reliving the memory before them. "He said that they would start to dabble with dark magic, unleashing a great evilness, and when that time came, he would send a hero, a warrior more of an angel than Jonathon Shadowhunter himself." She shakes her head, her blonde hair tumbling loose from its braided bun. "We've been searching for you, Clarissa. You are our hero. You are our light." Clary stammers for a response, but comes up short, proving once again that she is not the right choice for this honor. Abagail pays no mind, though, charging forward. "You must know that you aren't the stereotypical hero, though. You're not the strongest or the fastest," before Clary has a chance to be offended, Abagail brings it around, "but you are the most powerful. You have the power to create and draw runes not found in the Gray Book." Clary looks down at her fingers, the ones that have barely wielded a stele. But they've created beautiful art, masterpieces of landscapes and portraits and scenes. Is every part of her an intricate piece of Raziel's master plan? Is none of what she is her own? She stumbles forward, off the platform and rushes away.

"I'll go after her," she hears Abagail whisper to Jace before Clary finds herself winding down unknown hallways. The footsteps behind her are persistent, unyielding as she continues to lose herself in the building.

"I guess the word _adamant_ wasn't just a stylistic choice," Clary mutters, finally stopping and turning to face the Sister. It's strange to see the smile break out on the ancient woman's face, to see emotions on this woman who has sworn her life to servitude, who has isolated herself to forge weaponry for Shadowhunters who will never know or respect her. It's strange that she seems…almost normal.

"No, it's not." Abagail takes up Clary's arm and leads her to the right, finding a little alcove with two chairs. They sit across from each other, neither speaking for a moment, just taking it in. Clary wonders why the Iron Sisters all have orange eyes. Maybe it's an evolutionary trait, that their burning color protects them from the brightness of the fires they compel to create weapons. "What is troubling you, young one?" It's difficult for Clary to remember that the woman before her is centuries old, with creamy, smooth skin and long, shiny hair. It's also impossible to prevent herself from pouring her soul into this woman, the one who's wisdom surmounts anyone she's ever known. And she just nods, as Clary professes her insecurities, her worries. And when Clary is finally silent, Abagail pauses for a moment, absorbing her words. "Clarissa," she starts, waiting momentarily to ensure she has Clary's undivided attention, "Raziel _chose_ you. He did not make you. He did not change you. He chose _you_ because of everything you are, everything you're destined to be."

"So Jace? My art? That was all in my future before Raziel gave me this…power?" Abagail takes up both Clary's hands in hers, running her thumbs across her knuckles.

"Everything you are is yours, Clarissa Herondale." Clary nods, chewing on her lip. "And I am going to do everything in my power to aid your victory." Clary sniffs, nodding again.

"How about loaning me an Aegis?"

X.O.X.O.X

Jace turns the Aegis over in his hands, unimpressed by its mundane appearance. It doesn't glow blue like his beloved seraph blades. It doesn't have a wicked curvature in its blade nor intricate carvings on the hilt. Instead, it's a normal, silver knife, sharpened into a thin blade, with a tarnished, bolden handle. He'd expected a knife in which angel's blood was required to create it to look a bit more extravagant, like heaven itself had tempered and perfected it. His looks of disdain go vastly unnoticed, though, as the women of the Adamant Citadel hover over his wife. She looks completely uncomfortable and utterly adorable in their circle of attention, every bright orange eye focused on her. As a dutiful husband and body guard, he should rescue her, but he finds himself giving her a sheepish smile as her eyes plead for help.

They've managed to press a stele into her hand—Jocelyn's opal stele, he notices. It's colors shimmer in the yellow lamplight, a rainbow morphing into different shapes as it moves in her hands. It's mesmerizing, the way her fingers move so naturally with the thin piece of metal pressed in the nook between her thumb and index finger. Her eyes, though slightly terrified, are alight, as she twirls it, hanging on to Sister Abagail's every word. Jace can't make out what she's saying, but he presumes she's teaching Clary about her newfound ability. He should feel jealous that someone else is training her, but he is not suited to teach her about something he knows nothing of. He'd never even heard of an ability to use runes not found in the Gray Book, let alone create them from nothing.

He vaguely wonders if she believes in herself now. She hadn't thought herself smart enough, strong enough, to even be on the same playing field as Valentine. Now, she has a power that nobody has, one that sets her miles above the rest, himself included. "Jace, look!" she cries out in pure joy, a rainbow appearing in the air above them. The group of women look up in awe, but Jace can't take his eyes of Clary, who stares into the shimmering air with her mouth agape, the colors reflecting in her eyes as she spins in a slow circle. She's never seen a real rainbow before, trapped beneath ground, she hasn't seen much the world has to offer. "You're not even looking," she interrupts with an eyeroll, pulling a smirk to his lips. He wants to say something coy, something that will bring a blush to her face, but the pure, unadulterated joy he can feel exploding from her chest has him yielding to her wishes, breaking their gaze and tilting his head back. He's seen rainbows before, but there's an unearthly quality about this one. It's as if he can almost touch it, as if he can reach out and bring a piece down to him.

"Clary, what else can you do?" Sister Magdalena inquires, bringing everyone's attention back around to the somewhat humiliated redhead.

"I think the more important question is, how can I use this to defeat Valentine?" This is directed at Sister Abagail, who appears to be the most all-knowing Shadowhunter Jace has ever been privy to meet. Because Abagail had been there at the creation of his kind, she knows the histories, the truth behind the prophecies and the truth in the myths. She's a walking textbook. And Jace understands now why she's retreated to the citadel. There's power in memories, in history, in _truth_. More people want her dead to perpetuate their lies rather than to spread the truth. She's kindlier than he'd anticipated upon first introduction, freely giving smiles to those around her. And maybe that's her downfall, that she trusts to easily. But one can't survive centuries living with blind trust. She must see something in them, something that even Jace himself cannot.

As Clary and the sisters discuss strategy, Jace, for once, is not paying attention. There's something about this place, the way the light is filtered in gold, how the air feels lighter and the distances shorter, that has his mind distracted. With the sounds of metalwork ringing in the distance and colored shadows painting the ground as the sun pours through the stained-glass windows, he can think of nothing other than the woman with unruly curls and a spirit to match. It hadn't been until this moment that he'd notice the axis his world used to spin on had shifted. It had recentralized and relocated to focus on this woman, his fire burning within him a reminder of his new purpose. Finding that the Lightwoods had taken him under obligation, that his childhood was a lie—it has given him a new perspective. Clary is the only one that hadn't lied to him. She shared her secrets from the very moment she waltzed into that training room. She stripped down to her soul for him, raw and emotional. She was strong when he felt weakest. She was steady when he felt lost. She is all there is and ever will be for him, and she is so far out of his league that he will never understand how the universe chose him to be with her. He will move heaven and hell to protect her, and he will be the man that she sees in him. She's the breath in his lungs and the beat in his heart.

And he's the most in love with the little things. The way she smiles into her coffee, the way she blows her curls from her forehead in frustration, the way she shakes her head a little when she sneezes, the way she closes her eyes to think, the way she inhales gently before a kiss, the way her fingers brush his in the dead of night—he's taken to memorizing every part of her after finding his fire, knowing death might come for him swiftly. And he will gladly die for her. Show him a train, and he will lie on the tracks for her. Show him a knife and he will bury it in his own chest.

And this love, this undying, unrelenting, all-consuming love he feels for her—it's not a weakness. He now knows love to be his source of power. It drives him to be stronger, to be faster than all his opponents. And most importantly, it now instils him with the right amount of mortality, the perfect balance of bravery and fear, the fine line between fighting to be alive and being alive to fight. She's not just the best side of him. She's all of him. And as he blinks out of his own mind, he finds her emerald gaze locked on his, a sly smile gracing her pink lips. "Jace, are you even listening?"

X.O.X.O.X

Idris greets them with silence. Once filled with the hum of idle chatter and thousands of hearts beating out of sync, the threat of Valentine has left the hallways barren, doors bolted. Even when one chooses to traverse the distances between points A and B, they do so with shifting eyes, wary of neighbors they've known for decades, terrified of strangers. Sebastian's treasons have shaken the foundation of this once tight-knit and joyful community, uprooted all the beliefs of safety and belonging, shredding centuries of trust between families, friends, _species_. This vacancy is more terrifying than the harshest of battles, Clary realizes as she drops from the hatch. It's heavy with doubt, fear, worry. Anxiousness has sunk its claws into every citizen of this planet, tightening its painful grip until the people become its puppet, living their lives worrying over every upcoming second. It echoes her failures as a queen, and how her mere existence has devastated Idris's entire population.

She must evade these emotions, the crippling anxiety that her shortcomings will far outnumber her triumphs. She can't collapse under the pressure, remain strong, standing for her people who have fallen in weakness before her. Dusting off the front of her gear, she meets Maia's stern gaze from the edge of the hangar. She's hit with an overwhelming sense of déjà vu as Maia begins to close the gap between them. Jace drops from the ship a few seconds later, and Clary's head swivels, finding Alec and Magnus approaching with powerful, deliberate strides. The two are so strikingly different that it is odd to see them walking side-by-side. While Alec is dripping in pure black with only his piercing blue eyes to set him apart from an ancient grayscale photograph, Magnus is drenched in green velvet. From the fedora on his head to the loafers on his feet, Magnus looks like a piece of moss that has been lifted from a fallen log in the forest. He's gone so far as to match the sparks dancing on his fingertips to his outfit. Clary ponders turning away from Maia and running toward the two boys, who Jace has already greeted and is involved in a deep conversation with. The decision is made for her, though, as Maia appears at her side, arms crossed over her chest defiantly, lips settled in a tight line. Though Maia's face has always been set in a severe expression, this is not one of disappointment. Rather, it is prideful, determined even. "Look, Maia, I'm not going to apologize for—"

"I'm going to fight with you, my queen," Maia interrupts in a hard voice that is totally foreign on Clary's ears. "I am going to fight for you." Though effective at getting the point across, Maia's voice has always been quiet, as to not spill the private details of a princess's life to everyone within earshot. These words, though, ring around the room, bouncing from the concrete walls and reverberating back again. "I will not watch my friends, my _family_ , die without standing beside them." Clary stutters in response, her hand fluttering to her chest in surprise. She remembers those words exiting her own mouth a long time ago, first rebelliously to her father and then again in determination to Jace. She remembers what emotion each response evoked, how her father's made her feel sheltered and useless while Jace's made her feel brave, powerful. She wants to support Maia, to applaud her grit and valor. Except this is Maia, with her frizzy brown hair she always has pulled tightly into a knot. This is Maia, with her numerous pens and color-coordinated planners. If Maia were to die under Clary's orders, the blood would be on her hands, another innocent life lost to Clary's father, to Clary's prophecy. While Clary chews her lip in deliberation, Maia's dark eyes show only resolve, holding steady as Clary's flicker about the room.

"I will not ask you to die for me, Maia," Clary begins, holding up a hand to stall Maia's retort, "but I also cannot keep you from your true purpose." She glances backward at Jace, whose face as relaxed into a smile, his posture easy, comfortable as he jabs Alec gently in the arm. Soon, all this peace will be gone, and they will be surrounded by chaos, by death and destruction. Soon, someone will be left to collect the pieces, and none of them can say for certain who will be the ones on the ground. Steeling her emotions once more, the queen turns back to Maia, who has since returned to her organized and eager self. "Please, Maia, gather my friends and meet us in the training room in ten minutes." Without question, Maia scurries away, her planner pressed firmly against her chest like a shield. Angel, please protect that girl. She is much to pure for the atrocities to come.

Clary edges up to the group of men, closing the gap with long, quick strides as three sets of eyes watch her arrival. The laughter sobers immediately, as they know that time has passed. The tone of the room physically shifts as all four faces settle into somber frowns. Clary only as to nod solemnly to give direction, turning on her heel as the follow promptly. The path to the training room seems beaten now, so familiar that she could traverse it with her eyes closed, only using the temperature of the air and the concrete beneath her feet as her guide. This visit is different, though. It is not one in anticipation of battle. The fight has already begun, and Clary is scrambling to get off the ropes, to get herself into the ring before the timer runs out.

When she presses her palm against the door, she wants to pause, to extend this moment onto forever so that she may never have to see another loved one die, so that she can just sit her with Jace behind her, taking comfort in knowing that somewhere in Idris, those she cares for are alive, doing mundane activities to pass the day. She shoves through anyway, knowing that time will move rapidly into infinity whether she wants it to or not.

On the other side, Maia is already waiting, scratching away furiously at her notepad. She's collected Isabelle and Simon, who seem to be having a heated debate about whether demons are birthed or hatched. "Demons are sexual organisms," Jace says in a slightly condescending tone, prodding the tip of his seraph blade with one finger. Simon stares at him, slack-jawed.

"Okay, but so are chickens!" he rebukes. "And _they_ lay eggs."

Jace tosses a glance over his shoulder. "Hey, Magnus, do you lay eggs?" Magnus, looking a bit disgusted at the prospect, shakes his head slowly, oblivious to the intense philosophical argument happening before him. Jace shrugs, the blade still in hand, as if to say _see_? Simon opens his mouth to say more, but Clary clears her throat, calling the attention to her direction. When all eyes land on her, Clary nods in acknowledgement.

"This battle will end with us. I will not lose more men to his wrath, and if it is up to me, I will not risk yours either." Isabelle's whip cuts through the air, cracking at the end of Clary's statement.

"We wouldn't let you hide us from the battle. We were born into war. It's all we've ever known." One of the only female Shadowhunters to fight beside the men, the passion for it burns in Isabelle's onyx eyes. "You can't do this alone, Clary."

Alec steps forward, his bow strapped across his back, his broad shoulders pulled back, chin lifted high. "As long as I get to spit on Valentine's corpse, I will not remain behind." His blue gaze, usually calming, has hardened to ice, undoubtedly lost in memories of Max, of what had been wrenched from him by the power of Valentine.

"I go where you go," is Jace's profound response, punctuated with a shrug as he steps up to Clary's side.

"You know where I stand." This comes from Maia, who's put her notebook aside somewhere. She's taken her hair down, and it lifts around her in an invisible air current. Her chocolate eyes are rimmed in a glowing amber, her lycanthrope roots more visible than ever before.

"I'm always interested in witnessing history," Magnus chimes from behind Alec, and all eyes land on Simon, who has been watching this exchange in silence. When he realizes that he has become the center of attention, he's startled into consciousness.

"Oh, was it not obvious that I'm coming with?" He is met with grumbles and eyerolls, but the room soon settles again as the weight of what they are about to do settles on their shoulders.

"How are we going to be strong enough to defeat him?" Alec asks, not in doubt but in genuine curiosity. "He has armies, and we have…we us." Clary nods briefly at Jace, who produces the aegis from his belt.

"One blow from this blade, and Valentine will be the last of our problems," Clary says as she reaches into her own belt and holds up the Pyxis. "Then, we use this to capture the demonic energy he's summoned into himself, ensuring it does not overcome one of us."

"How are we actually going to get close enough to _kill_ him, though?" Simon, ever the skeptic, adds, his chin cupped in his right hand as he ponders the outcomes of a mission this impossible.

"Easy. We use an Alliance rune." There are several scoffs, and more looks of confusion.

"That doesn't exist, Clary," Isabelle says, suddenly questioning her decisions. "I've never even heard of it."

"That is because I created it. With the help of the Iron Sisters." Clary's voice has an air of mystery as she says those words, almost enough to pull a laugh from her throat. Almost. "Let me show you." She jerks her head, motioning for Alec and Magnus to come over. She hands each a piece of paper and sets her stele in Magnus's hand. "Draw this rune on Alec's arm." Magnus just stares at the foreign metal object in his hand, the incredulous look on his face voicing his unspoken thoughts. "Trust me." Magnus looks at Alec, who gives him a short nod before shoving his sleeve upward. There's a moment's hesitation before Magnus touches the tip of the stele to Alec's skin. The disbelief turns to surprise as glowing lines emerge from beneath it, a golden rune forming on Alec's arm. When he's done, Magnus hands the stele to Alec, eagerly extending his arm. It is Alec's turn to hesitate. Marks kill those who aren't Shadowhunters. Magnus is placing a lot of trust in the queen. Soon, the partnering rune glows on Magnus's arm, who is very much alive and staring at it in awe. "This rune links two people, more specifically, a Shadowhunter and a Downworlder. Magnus will now share Alec's warrior skills while Alec reaps the benefits of being a warlock."

And just like that, the alliances begin to form. Maia and Isabelle are next, and Isabelle promptly celebrates by sprinting around the room at top speed. Simon partners with Jordan, Maia's boyfriend and Simon's old roommate. Clary calls on Alaric to partner with Jace, their protective instincts making them a perfect match in skill level and mindset.

This leaves only Clary unpartnered. Instead of dwelling on it, Clary snatches the aegis from Jace, passing around the rare weapon to distract anyone from noticing.

X.O.X.O.X

Back in Idris, Clary is more alive, more vibrant than he'd seen in a while. Gathered in the training room with their closest friends, she's the center of attention, even when she's sitting in silence, watching, waiting. She hadn't told Jace what Sister Abagail had said, and he isn't planning on asking her to. He knows that she said the words he could not, the words that she so desperately needed to hear, because when Jace refuses to be weak before her, Clary reciprocates, and he above anyone knows that sometimes it's easier to vent to a stranger than the ones you love. They don't have expectations, so they can't pass proper judgement.

And it burdens his soul that he's passed that trait on to her, that she's nervous to show too much emotion in front of him, that she thinks he would see her as anything other than the strong, passionate, beautiful woman he's come to know, to love. There's a light in her eyes as she shows the Aegis to those around her, talking about the Silent City, about the Adamant Citadel, giving just enough information without relaying any sensitive information. And in that moment, he remembers the first time he'd ever lain eyes on the princess.

It was when he was ten, terrified, shivering in gear much too big for him after having left everything he'd ever known on Alicante, including his family. Robert walked stiffly beside him, and Jace so badly wanted to reach up for his hand, to have some comfort in this strange place, some sign that he was still important, still cared for. Robert had been bringing the boy to see the king, and as the door opened, he saw Lucian in all his grandeur. Even as a boy, Jace could see the kindness in that man's blue-gray eyes, the lines that had been dug in his face from years of laughter. Even after the recent loss of his wife, the man still had it in him to smile.

And now Jace knows it's because of the bundle of red curls hiding behind the king's legs. "Clarissa, say hello," Lucian had urged her from her hiding place, and she slowly emerged. Even behind a thick veil of crimson hair, Jace could still see the curiosity sparking in her eyes. She was all scabby knees and missing teeth. Her skin was marred with freckles but void of marks. There was nothing special about her, and yet, Jace had been drawn to her, to her aurora, to her existence. It's why he'd distanced himself from her for years, spent his time climbing the ranks as a Shadowhunter, to protect his city, to protect _her_.

"Excuse me, everyone," Jace announces suddenly, grabbing Clary a bit harshly by the upper arm and pulling her from the room. She stumbles with him until he dips into a hallway closet, slamming the door behind them.

"What the fuck, Jace—" He pushes her up against the closed door, her eyes glowing through the darkness. He slips the Aegis from her grip and sheathes it in his belt, her breath hitching in her throat, her gaze flickering between his pupils. He hesitates before kissing her, but when he does, light explodes behind his eyelids, cutting through the black and filling his head with clarity, his arms with strength.

"I need you to know, Clary. From the first day I saw you, I've loved you. You were all there ever was for me. My world—it _shifted_ when I met you. I'm sorry I tried to fight it, Clary. I'm sorry I wasted all that time." She splays her fingers across his cheeks, her breath fanning across them, as gentle as her whispers.

"You're kind of stuck with me now," she laughs, and Jace presses his hand over the rune he'd put on her chest. "I know it took me forever to say, Jace, but I _love_ you. I was so scared of losing you that I was too selfish to admit it, like if I never said it aloud, my heart would hurt less—"

"I'm not going anywhere. Not now, and not ever." She closes the distance then, wrapping her legs around his waist as Jace pushes her harder against the door, using it as leverage. She makes quick work of his shirt, casting it into the back of the blackness without a second thought, his weapons belt soon to follow. She clenches her teeth together, eyes widening, when something breaks. "Forget about it," Jace murmurs against her mouth, lifting her tank top to just below her breasts, his warm hands hovering against her ribs, his fingertips tracing them. There's so much love in the way he holds her, touches her, kisses her, that she feels like she's bursting inside, that if her love for him could possibly grow, she'd explode. "Should we go back to our room?" Jace asks in a hushed, urgent tone, but Clary clenches her thighs around him, shaking her head quickly as she buries it in the crook of his neck, nipping at his skin. He moans quietly, and she drops from his grip, removing the rest of her clothes as he does his.

The wood is now cold against her spine, but Jace's embrace is filled with fire as his eyes burn down on her. And in that storage closet, they make love, lost in each other for what might be the last time. It's teeth bumping and muscle pulling and slipping and pure and raw and true. It's everything they've both ever wished for and never known they needed. And as death looms closer and closer, the sated pair cannot be bothered to vacate their bubble. Clary clutches Jace to her chest for a little longer, her legs stretched out before her on the cold, concrete floor. Jace twirls a piece of her hair around his finger over and over again, mesmerized by the way it so easily retakes its shape. They know that the inevitable is nearing, and that as soon as they leave this closet, they will be setting out to gear up for the battle of a lifetime. So, they sit in silence, reveling in what little peace they have left.

When they return, the sight is inspiring. Shadowhunters are instructing the wolves on how to handle their weapons, how to slay a demon, and the wolves are demonstrating what they Shadowhunters can do with their new strength. Alec has blue sparking on his fingertips under Magnus's watchful gaze. Only Isabelle notices and waggles her eyebrows at the pair as they return, but everyone else seems too immersed in what they are doing to notice.

"Clary, you still need an alliance," Jace tells her, hauling her to a stop by looping his fingers around her wrist. He says it quiet enough as to not disturb the training warriors, but loud enough that it makes Clary uncomfortable. Truthfully, with Sebastian's recent betrayal and Kaelie's undermining schemes, there are few people she feels she can trust. She simply shakes her head, wanting to cut off further discussion of the topic.

That is, until the training room doors open with a burst of light, illuminated a silhouette in the frame. All heads whip in that direction as the figure steps forward, the doors falling shut behind him. The wolves stand a bit straighter, like they are beneath the scrutinizing gaze of a pack leader. "It would be an honor to be aligned with you, Clarissa," a familiar, deep voice says, resonating through a hollow in Clary's chest she hadn't even known she had.

Her watery eyes can't seem to focus as footsteps approach, but the arms that engulf her are all the proof she needs as she melts into his embrace. "Dad."

* * *

 _Ayyyyyeee...So there was a comment asking why the Silent Brother's explanation of the prophecy was different than what Valentine thought about the prophecy...so Valentine thinks the prophecy is about Jace right now because Valentine thinks that the prophecy is only about one person...one person equal to his strength...he doesn't know that it's about both Clary and Jace, because Clary is equal to his strength and Jace was sent to protect her. Only someone with the strength of the prophecy can enter the hell dimension, so when Jace rescued Clary, Valentine decided the prophecy must be about Jace._

 _Anyway..._

 _Hit me with a review?_

 _All My Love_

 _~BallinBlonde21_


	24. There's No Place Like Home

_Sorry for the absence! Exams and papers have been crazy! Here's an update! Rounding out the story here, maybe one or two chapters left! Enjoy!_

* * *

 _The Shadow Wars_

 _Chapter 24: There's No Place Like Home_

* * *

 _Songs:_

 _Part 1: I Can't Go On Without You - Kaleo_

 _Part 2: Fire Burns - Nicki Minaj_

 _Part 3: Young and Menace - Fall Out Boy_

* * *

"You're dead," are the first words to leave her mouth as she steps from the circle of his arms. The words come out a bit harsher than she'd expected, and though his warm embrace says otherwise, her mind screams that this is wrong, that he should no longer be on this earthly plane, that she should not be able to touch him, to hear his heart beating strong and steadily in his chest. "I watched your body burn." It's almost a hiss, the way she says it, and his soft blue eyes widen fractionally, startled by her hostility. There's a strange glowing ring around those familiar irises, and Luke's aurora is different. He's always been a quiet warrior, his kindness radiating stronger than all else. Now, there's a different undertone, one of both power and restraint, like he has to physically hold himself back now, like there's something itching to be released. He rests his hand gently on her shoulder, knowing no words can comfort her as hot tears stream from her eyes. "You're dead!" she yells again, shrugging off his touch and running from the room as curious and awestruck gazes follow. She doesn't care that she looks more like a child than a queen. She doesn't care that her unshakable Shadowhunter façade has slipped. All that she cares about is that Luke is alive and that he's been keeping it from her.

In the training room, an uncomfortable silence settles after the door slams behind Clary. "Let me talk to her." Magnus steps forward, shooting Alec a harsh look as the Shadowhunter moves to follow. Luke's hand is still suspended in the air, like he's too dumbfounded to lower it. Jace digs his heels into the mat, lodging himself into place so he does not follow Magnus to his wife. He couldn't even begin to know how to comfort her, as he's as clueless as those whose eyes flicker between their deceased king and their current one. Wordlessly, Jace dips his head in a polite bow, unsheathing his sword as he lowers onto one knee. The others follow suit, but Lucian makes a noise of disapproval, lifting Jace to his feet.

"The era of my rule is over, young king." Luke's voice is distant, his mind still lost with Clary, whose footsteps can no longer be heard outside. He lifts his head regally as he addresses the room. "Jace is a worthy ruler and a fearless leader. He will do great things for his people and for the universe." Jace is too distracted to respond to his father-in-law's kind words, and he can see that Luke is too, both their eyes trailing the ornate design in the closed training room door. Clary's confusion and torment radiate through the rune on his chest, and his fire dances at the surface of his skin, waiting to erupt and destroy what troubles her. Except in this case, it's her father, and his legitimate death would destroy her more than his fake one.

"Clary," Magnus announces his arrival as he catches up to the skittish woman, walking entirely too quickly for a woman of her stature. "Please, Clary, you must understand—"

She whirls on her heal, her green eyes ablaze like a wildfire, her hair fanning around her face like flames licking her pale skin. "Understand _what_ exactly?! That my father…my _father_ allowed me to believe he was dead for months? That he let me mourn his loss and blame myself for Valentine's attack, let me withdraw from my husband and his own anguish as I attempted to deal with mine?" Her chest was heaving and a fresh bout of tears sprang to her eyes, as hot as the anger burning within her veins. "I've been doing this alone, Magnus. I confronted Valentine _alone_. I was tortured _alone_." Magnus clucks his tongue to her annoyance.

"Jace was with you, Clarissa. Jace has always been with you."

"Yes, yes!" she huffs, "My prophetic protector, my angel-made savior. That makes up for my father faking his own demise." She adds an eyeroll for melodramatic effect, though she could never compare to the dramatic man across from her, who juts out one hip as he places his hands on them, looking at her incredulously. "Let me guess," she interrupts as he opens his mouth to speak. "My father did this for my own protection, like somehow his death would save me from my inevitable destiny."

"Clarissa, you are hardly being fair—"

"And how the hell can he be aligned with me?" she muses, just wondering out loud now, her thoughts too much as they spill over into vocalizations. "The rune was created to bond a Shadowhunter to a Downworlder not two…oh… _ohhhh_." Her eyes become saucers as she strings several things together to create the truth.

"Your father was bitten by a werewolf, Clarissa. The lycanthrope virus did not react well with the angel's blood. He was unstable. He would change randomly, losing control and consciousness. He really was trying to protect you…to protect himself from hurting you and those he cared about."

"I yelled at him," she whispers, disbelieving as Magnus's words settle in her mind. "He came back from the dead, and I yelled at him." Now, Magnus releases a snort, laughing at the disgruntled expression on her face. "Laugh again, and I will have you executed." Magnus can't contain the laughter bubbling from his chest as Clary tosses her hair over her shoulder, straightening her back. After shooting the warlock a glare, she retraces the path to the training room.

Timidly, the opens the door, unsurprised when all sets of eyes land on her. Without a word, she removes her stele, and presents it to her father. There's hope in his eyes, much like there had been in Jace's as she allowed him to trace the marriage rune against her breast. She offers him her arm and doesn't wince as the new rune is branded into her skin. Instead, she stares at Jace, whose looking at her with a mix of adoration and lust, a small smile playing at the edges of his lips as Luke finishes the last, sweeping line. Magnus had been right. Even before their engagement, even when she'd been at her words, Jace had always been there, and the determined sparkle in his eye told her that he always will be.

X.O.X.O.X

She doesn't notice Jace's entrance until he slams his elbow down on the treadmill's stop button, halting her brisk nine mph pace as she yanks the earbuds from her head, effectively cutting off Nicki Minaj's flow. "What the hell, Jace?" There's so much foreign energy coursing through her, giving her the power to run faster, jump higher, persist longer. It also heightens her emotions, strengthens her reactions. Glancing down, the blinking meter says she's only run two miles, though perspiration runs in streams down her chest and forehead as she pushes rogue curls exasperatedly from her face. Jace is peering down at her with hard eyes, a disapproving expression furrowing his brow. She can see Alaric's abilities reflected in him, too, in the harsh coil of his muscles, in the twitching of his ears at every sound.

"It's one in the morning," he announces like somehow with her cell phone propped in front of her, she'd still been oblivious of the time. "You didn't come to bed. I was worried." She runs a hand through her sweaty curls after letting them down from the hairband, watching Jace's gaze trace her motions, softening slightly. He's always been a sucker for her wild hair, free of any confines as carefree and crazy as her soul. His face has relaxed, showing how worried he's really been. It ages him, gives him a wisdom beyond his years. She can feel his relief flooding into her from their runed chests, surprised she hadn't felt his anxiousness at her disappearance. Then again, she hadn't really been paying attention to anything other than the pounding of her footsteps.

"I just…I needed to think," she settles on, her eyes flickering to the new rune tattooed up her arm, evidence that Luke is alive, that her father is _alive_. The man she'd bound and burned has returned from the hallows of death. After the initial shock, she'd realized how grateful she was to the forces that brought her father back, to the life-saving werewolf bite. Because surely without the lycanthrope's healing abilities, her father would have perished and been gone for an actual eternity. After she'd hugged him until her arms went numb, the small troupe had trained, honing the shared agility and strength. Each pair learned to work as a team rather than separate entities. They'd tested the limits of the partnership, finding powers can be linked indefinitely over space and time, and that while their skillsets became shared, they were merely borrowed, awakening with the pumping of adrenalin. The bond is physical, making it very unlike the parabatai and marriage runes. A partner cannot feel one's emotions, cannot sense trouble or danger, a feat that proves important when Clary begins to feel heated at the way Jace's heavy gaze lands on her lips.

And yet, she looks away from him, tucking a curl behind her ear nervously. When the dust had settled and everyone shuffled past to go to bed, Clary couldn't meet Jace's eyes either. She was crushed beneath this overwhelming guilt. Her father had come back from the dead, but Jace would never receive such a miracle. What had she done to deserve this over him? Jace had mourned Lucian with her, taking time away from his own grieving to support her, to ensure that she wasn't facing her despair alone. He loved her through the tears, through the screams. Hell, he'd been arrested and tortured for Luke's death and still brought her flowers to put by his memorial, still held her hand as she stared at his empty desk. She cannot celebrate her father's return, not when his death had cost Jace so greatly, not when there was no hope for those Jace had lost.

Jace finally grips her chin with his index finger and thumb, forcing her eyes to his, refusing to allow her to succumb to the silence. She can see in the way his eyes flicker between hers that he knows something is wrong. He always knows when something is wrong. Even before their marriage, before their bond, every time death loomed above her, he'd been there, deadlifting her from the Void, cutting down demons on Valentine's ship. He's been there for her, _with_ her, and all she's ever done is cause him pain. "Come to bed, princess. You must be exhausted."

She wants to tell him that she's fine, to run until her mind is numb from pain, but her own body betrays her, collapsing forward into Jace's awaiting arms as she stumbles from the treadmill. She doesn't pull away at his touch, a shiver of pleasure running down her spine when his lips land against her temple. She can feel his tiredness now, her brain returning to full function and honing in on their link. It was horrible of her to keep him awake, especially with the looming battle. "Stop feeling guilty about things not in your control," he whispers huskily, toying with a curl by her ear. "Stop putting all this weight on your shoulders, princess." She wants to say that she's not, to deny any emotions at all, but the emotional pressure has turned physical as she struggles to walk forward. Jace scoops her into his arms effortlessly, and she bounces against his chest as he walks, her arms looped loosely around his chest though he doesn't need her help. He doesn't talk as they traverse the lonely corridors. He merely nods solemnly to the guards as they pass, who promptly avert their gazes to give the pair privacy. He expertly weaves the way to their apartment, shoving through the door with his shoulder and closing it behind him with his boot, shifting her a bit to kick them off at the entry. She does the same, her sneakers falling to the floor with a heavy clatter in their quietness. The stairs groan under their combined weight, but they hold sturdy, just like the love this man has for her.

Jace sets her gently on the bed, kneeling between her legs so they are level. He cups her face gently with both hands, a certain clarity in her eyes she's never seen before. It's like, if she could stare long enough, she could see directly into his soul and witness life through his mind. "I'm glad your father is alive, too, Clary. Okay? You don't have to hide your joy from me." Why does this man have to be so damn perfect? Why can't he go back to being the cocky bastard who told her mundanes shouldn't have seraph blades? Why does he have to be so accepting when the universe keeps dealing him shitty hands? She presses her palm to his face, and he leans into her touch, breathing heavily. She can tell he's struggling to keep his composure, that all his pain is threatening to burst out at any moment.

Instead of pushing her away, he stands abruptly, gathering her into his arms and carrying her from the room. "Jace!" she squeals as he stands them both in the shower beneath a stream of hot water. There's a smile in those eyes as he grips behind her thighs, pressing her into the cold tile of the wall. His eyes are hot with desire, his mouth warm with love as it feathers kisses along her collarbone. Her gear is getting heavier as the water seeps into it, but it does little to slow Jace's progress as he holds her steadily in his arms. "Jace," she whispers, sifting through his curls and latching on as her head falls backward against the wall, giving him access to her throat.

"Mmmm," he hums against her skin, glancing up at her through thick golden eyelashes. The iris is almost swallowed entirely by his pupil, droplets of water dripping from his lashes and splattering onto his nose. She wants to paint him like this—raw, vulnerable. She never wants to forget the love in his expression and his hands as he holds her close like he can't bear to lose her.

"I love you."  
"I love you, too, princess."

X.O.X.O.X

"How long will you hide behind your slaves?!" Jace questions the darkness as ranks fill in around them. Last night, soldiers had come forward, eager to mark themselves and fight for their king and queen, _beside_ their king and queen. The rest of the fleet circles above Lake Lyn, backup troops waiting to relieve those exhausted from battle. Clary grips her seraph blade a little tighter, casting a worried glance over her shoulder at Alec, who seems as perplexed by the silence as she is. "You're a coward, Valentine. You always will be."

A slow applause resounds in the distance, a figure emerging from the shadows. Clary sees her blonde hair first, light in the blackness that surrounds her. Then, the shimmering silver dress appears, hugging her demonic curves. Then the eyes, a solid ink blue with only a pupil dotting the center. "Kaelie—" Jace murmurs from beside her as the woman unfurls a set of glittery pink wings from between her shoulder blades, her glossy pink lips parting to reveal a set of perfect teeth. "What are you doing here?"

There's a wickedness in that smile as she appraises Jace's muscles in his gear, completely oblivious to the army flanking him. "I told you that you'd be mine again, Jacey. You didn't believe me." She pouts a little, but brightens again when her eyes fall to Clary. "Ah, Clarissa, you didn't think daddy was the only one after you all this time, did you?"

Clary has to physically swallow her anger at this woman, replacing it with concern as red eyes begin to fill the black hallway behind her. "He's using you, Kaelie. Valentine has no use for you once he has us." There's heartless laughter as Kaelie begins to mock Clary, her high heels clacking with deadly precision as she approaches.

" _Us_? Valentine doesn't want _you_ , Clary. His orders are to get Jace, and you…well, he doesn't care if you're dead or alive." She sneers in her direction, though she's no longer focused on the redhead. Her eyes continue to drink in Jace, who shifts uncomfortably under her inhuman gaze.

"You've been the one helping Valentine brainwash Downworlders this entire time? Enslaving your own kind? Sending them to die?" There is both disbelief and disgust in Jace's voice, more so as Kaelie giggles like a school girl he's just complimented. This woman is responsible for tens of thousands of deaths, and she has the audacity to shrug it off with a laugh. Jace puts his hand over hers as her seraph blade lifts, ready to displace this woman's head from her shoulders. "Why are you helping him, Kaelie?"

"He promised we could be together," she says sweetly. "He told me if I got him an army, Clary would no longer be a problem."

"I'm right here," Clary hisses at the same time Jace growls, "Over my dead body." They share a fleeting grin before Kaelie's face turns red. Clary can feel her anger from across the room, flaring up as the eyes grow larger and larger.

"I'm getting really sick of this love thing," she hisses, spreading her arms out wide as her hair lifts around her in an invisible wind. "You can't fight the darkness, Jace. Just like you can't save your beloved from me." Clary screams as a black fog slithers over to her, blinding her as it takes form. A demon smiles down at her with six rows of serrated teeth, black eyes blending into black skin as the world around her disintegrates, giving her a fractured reality where her armies lay slain around her, Kaelie at the center, drenched in blood and grinning from the circle of Jace's arms.

She screams. Or at least, she thinks she does, until she realizes her mouth is closed, and the sound originates from the demon before her, a sword cutting a burning hole in its chest as it collapses to reveal Luke, concerned blue eyes and all. "King Lucian," Kaelie muses with detached interest. "This is an interesting revelation." Luke has wrapped his arm around Clary, supporting her as she struggles to catch his breath. "Kill them all, leave the blond one for Valentine," she commands her armies, melting into the darkness once more. The demons surge forward, and Clary is surrounded by her warriors, honed for battle. They seem to be in a trance as they systematically devour the demons charging them, Jace the indisputable leader as he narrows his eyes, ignoring the ichor burns on his cheek and bicep.

"Go after her," Luke says, shoving her in the direction of Jace. "We can hold the demons off until then." Clary nods feverishly, brandishing her weapon and fighting her way over to Jace.

"Jace, we have to go after Kaelie. We have to do something." Jace's composure doesn't crack even as ichor burns a hole through the top of his boot, revealing red and puckered skin beneath.

"Let's go." His voice is all business as he urges her forward with a hand to the small of her back. They duck and dodge the curved and spiked tails of the demons as they sprint down the vacant corridor. Clary's training makes it easy for her to keep pace with Jace's long strides, though her chest still burns with the agony of the scene she'd witness. Is that the future that's been mapped out for them?

They catch the tail of Kaelie's silver skirt as she disappears behind a large, mahogany door, and without a second thought, the two barrel in after her. "Pleased you two could join us," Valentine hisses as he turns around in his red velvet chair like this is some corny mobster movie from the eighties. Two werewolves slam the door behind them as other Downworlders encircle them, trapping the pair. Kaelie rocks eagerly on her heels, shooting impatient glances at Valentine as he paces before the couple, appraising their battered state.

"I thought we'd agreed they'd be unharmed," he growls to no one in particular, or so it seems. Kaelie's face had fallen, her prideful mask swapped for one of fear as Valentine whirls. In a motion too fast for Clary to catch, a knife has buried itself between the woman's lifted breasts, her wide blue eyes the last thing Clary sees before she tips backward and onto the floor. She's too shocked to scream. Jace looks at Kaelie's body impassively before shifting ever-so-slightly in front of Clary. "Protective, are we?" Valentine moves to the left, and Jace moves with him, narrowing his eyes in challenge. "You can't possibly shield her from all these people," Valentine points out with a soft laugh, the Downworlders around them closing in. Warlocks have red sparks dancing on their fingertips while vampires show their fangs. Half-morphed werewolves raise their claws and faeries flutter inches from the floor, wicked smiles gracing their gnarled faces.

"Oh, can't I?" Jace replies with a grin just as feral, the blaze that had been growing hotter beneath his skin exploding outward, incinerating those who dared to encroach any further. Valentine, though, stands within the circle, completely unharmed. He acknowledges the whirlwind of fire around them with an appreciative nod. "Just you and me, old man," he says now, pulling out the Aegis. Clary knows that this is how they had it planned, that Jace would challenge Valentine as a distraction and she'd control the pyxis, but she'd be damned if her heart didn't hammer outside her chest in terror as those golden eyes matched the black ones, daring another move. And before Jace can move, Valentine appears behind Jace, blood coating his hand as he inserts the Aegis in his back, right where it will puncture the heart.

Time seems to pass in slow motion as Jace slumps forward, his fire returning to within him, the blade still protruding from between his shoulderblades. "Shame," Valentine says with a shrug as Clary claps her hands over her mouth, withholding her screams, tears flooding her eyes. She'll never forget the sound he makes when he hits the floor, the sickening crack of his knees against the cement, the maniacal laughter in the background. "He was the only one capable of stopping me."

The small wooden box presses up against her hip, tucked in the waistband of her gear, waiting for the right moment to be unlocked. "Are you sure you believe that?" Clary questions, her fingers refreshing their grip on her blade as Valentine begins to circle her like pray. Her eyes are narrowed, leveled on Valentine as she tries to avoid any glances downward.

Valentine laughs in her face, approaching with raised palms, amusement dancing in his blackened eyes. "You surely don't believe _you_ are the chosen one, daughter." She takes a step backward as he advances one more, waiting, stalling.

"You certainly once believed that. I believe you had me captured, _thrice_." Valentine dismisses this with a wave of his hand. He's stopped pacing forward, tired of this game. Instead, he's tapping his chin, deciding his next words carefully.

"I've been in pursuit of Herondale this entire time, dear Clarissa. Don't you see that?" She can taste the blood as it makes her way from the gash on her forehead, cutting bloody rivers down her nose and cheek. "Look at you! Did you think you could _actually_ be a Shadowhunter? You're weak, Clarissa. Far inferior to my capabilities."

"Then why not just kill me?!" She allows the raw agony to sift into her voice, and it cracks on the words. She's tapping into the pain she's felt at Jace's stabbings, at Luke's death, at her multitude of failures. "What purpose do I serve if not to be your greatest enemy?" Valentine acknowledges this with a nod, leaning casually against the doorjamb, blocking her only exit.

"Well, you've obliterated my son, so now you are my sole heir, the only one with a soul that parallels mine, the only one suited to rule should I die." She sneers at him, the motion jarring open the clot in the cut on her cheek. She keeps smiling, even when she tastes blood in her mouth, even when Valentine clenches his fingers tightly around her neck, enough to bruise but not quite enough to suffocate.

"You just said you won't kill me, Valentine. What reason do I have to fear you?" There's no humor in Valentine's laugh, no remorse in his eyes as her skull connects with the wall, stars exploding behind her eyes. She doesn't let him see the effect it has on her. She won't give him that satisfaction. Her anger has ebbed into a cool composure, one that even her father cannot crack.

"I may not kill you, my child, but I am not opposed to other measures." The blade in his hand runs across her wrist, drawing only one drop of blood. "You will become a suitable heir. You will be fit to rule beside me." It's Clary's turn to laugh in her face, the hostility in it scaring even her.

"You are cruel, Valentine. Mean, greedy, soulless—all are words I'd use to describe you," she hisses, Valentine's grip tightening perceptibly around her throat, so much that her next words are hoarse, strangled. "But I'd never thought you'd be stupid, too." With that, she drives her knee up into the space below his ribs, breaking his grip as he stumbles backward. "Get up," she growls, using the toe of her boot to nudge his blade back to him as she brandishes one of her own. "I will not fight a defenseless man."

"Honorable," he mutters as his fingers wrap around the hilt, rising to his feet a bit unsteadily. That's when she sees it, the slightly emaciated frame, the sullen eyes and ghastly pallor.

"You're dying. That's why you needed me." She tightens her grip around her seraph blade as it blazes to life. "You wanted to put that damned essence into _me_!"

"Don't flatter yourself, Clarissa," he muses, swinging at the air in front of him. "I'd never give you this power, not when you enter fights on the premise of _honor_. Not when you let yourself be weakened by silly things like love and friendship." He stalks forward, but Clary holds her ground, refusing to look where Jace's body still lay. "Now, Herondale," the way Valentine says his name sickens her, like he's a doting father of a champion child, "he showed promise. All it took to remove the innate instinct to love was to slay his parents while he watched—"

Clary's blade severs Valentine's left hand as she lashes out. "Don't you dare talk about Jace." Valentine's laughter bubbles over as he takes his own swing, removing a chunk of skin from Clary's arm.

"See, Clarissa? You are blinded by your love, and it is because of that love that Jonathon Herondale is dead." She deflects Valentine's blow as his sword arches through the air toward her head, the collision ringing up her arm and into her shoulder. Valentine leaves his blade there, pressing against hers with crushing force. "And because of it, you will be, too."

"You're wrong," she grits out as his blade inches hers closer to her face. "Love makes you strong. Love gives you a reason to keep fighting." And as Valentine's mouth opens to spit something else at her, the aegis cuts through the air like an arrow from Alec's bow, embedding itself in Valentine's back. He has enough life to turn on his heel and meet the golden eyes of his killer before collapsing to the ground beside his hand. Clary fumbles for the pyxis in her pocket before wrenching its top open, a black smog flowing steadily from the body into the small wooden box. When the last bit is encased in its eternal prison, she slams the lid shut.

"Thankfully he forgot I had Alaric's healing abilities," he muses with a casual shrug before Clary throws herself into his bloody arms, sobbing into his torn t-shirt. "It's over," Jace whispers against her skin, turning her away from the gruesome scene and into his chest. One hand is pressed firmly against her curls, holding her to him like if they separate, this peaceful world may shatter to reveal a much more painful reality. "It's over." She can't tell if he's saying it to comfort her heaving breaths and endless tears or to convince himself that the suffering has finally come to an end. Clary turns the pyxis over in her palm behind Jace's head, marveling that the it confines the torment of her entire existence, of her people's existence.

She pulls away abruptly, shoving the box into Jace's hands, the space where her body had just been. "I can't…I can't…" Words fail her as she shakes her head, pushing curls from her face in exasperation. The pyxis terrifies her, and she's worried that another moment in her clumsy fingers will release the demon once more, only to slay the remaining ones she loves. Jace doesn't attempt to quell her fears, and she sees it's because his fingers, too, tremble around the ornate wooden carvings, that his eyes avoid the object entirely as he merely nods in agreement, shoving it into one of the many compartments in his gear.

Around them, confused warriors lift their heads, rising to their feet as if awakened from a long slumber. Faeries stretch their cramped wings while vampires prod their elongated canines. Brothers hug while lovers embrace, reunited at long last, and the darkness of the bunker, usually shrouded in shadows and lies, has a white glow to it, a purity as the tears of joy, of pain, of loss and remembrance was away the stains of blood and war. "I'm so sorry…I'm…" a faerie knight stutters, appalled as he lowers the sword drawn on a cowering girl with bloodstained hands and scabbed knees. Clary watches as the girl inhales a shaky breath, clamoring to her feet and running into the arms of the knight. He holds her, timidly at first, before dropping his weapon complete, the clattering noise lost in the sea of voices lifting from the chaos.

Jace isn't paying attention to the reunions happening around them, to the anguished pleas and joyous cries. Instead, he's enthralled by the shimmering green eyes of his wife as they take in the scene enough for the both of them. He knows there's a canvas in her mind, waiting to encapsulate the emotions in this moment, to capture this moment of triumph for eternity. The Shadow Wars will become something of history books, a name for middle school children to remember for an exam and promptly forget to make room for the latest song lyrics. The Shadow Wars will no longer be a plague to their society, a staunch reminder that there are still those opposing equality. They will be a milestone, when everyone banded together against one enemy, when Downworlders bore runes and Shadowhunters sprouted fangs. It will boast the greatest Prisoner of War recovery to date but will also claim the greatest death toll among all the species. And yet, as those jewel eyes finally make their way around to him, he, too, forgets the atrocities he's seen, the death and destruction. Because in her eyes, he is safe, and in her eyes, he is home.

* * *

 _Review? :)_

 _All My Love_

 _~BallinBlonde21_


	25. Hope is for the Victorious

_We've reached it, lovelies. It's been a dramatic ride, a whirlwind of ups and downs, but here is the final conclusion, the final moment. I know I've loved sharing this with you, and I hope that you've come to love these characters as much as I have. If you're a past reader of any of my stories, you already know that 21 reviews earns a bonus scene, so this is the official end, but possibly not the entire end. Anyway, please enjoy._

* * *

 _The Shadow Wars_

 _Chapter 25: Hope is for the Victorious_

* * *

 _Songs:_

 _Part 1: Time Will Be The Healer - Glen Hansard_

 _Part 2: Wandering Child - Wild Rivers_

* * *

"What do we do now?" Clary whispers as the door to their apartment closes softly behind them. There's a scuffle as they work to drop their weapons and kick off their boots. Jace can see her swaying slightly on her feet, woozy from the heavy creams Magnus had applied to their ichor-encrusted wounds minutes before. He cups her cheek gently, running his thumb across her cheekbone before placing a soft kiss on her lips. Jace has never kissed her like this before, one filled with so much hope and peace and acceptance, like for once, he's certain there will be a tomorrow, and for once, he's happy about it.

"Now, we shower and sleep. And then we figure out what to do with this." He produces the pyxis, pinched between his thumb and forefinger, glinting lightly in the dying light as he inspects it with a scrutinizing gaze. Any response or input Clary might have is drowned out by the sound of air rushing toward them, like a million fans blowing down on them at high speed. It's a ringing noise, resonating through her brain as she doubles over, plugging her ears as her lips part in a silent scream. Jace struggles through the wind to reach her, wrapping one arm around her waist as she becomes blinded by a white light. The rune on her chest pulsates with comforting emotions, but Clary's head feels as if it is about to explode. She blindly weaves her fingers through Jace's, unable to see even her own body in a light this bright.

Is this what death looks like? Had they not survived as they once thought? Was the terror and turmoil only beginning?

As suddenly as it began, the chaos stops. Jace grips Clary tighter as their sight returns, his breath catching in confusion. They are in the field beside their cottage, the grass wet and dewy beneath their bare feet. "How the fuck-?" Clary elbows Jace in the ribs before he can finish his though, directing his attention upward.

A man—an angel—looms above them, forty feet tall in this vacant prairie. His long hair is silver, streaked gold in the sunset, matching the peculiar runes that shine gold like the one Clary had given Jace. His eyes, as they meet hers, are solid gold, unlike Jace's in that they have no pupil, no white. Clary swallows hard, clinging to Jace's hand for support as her heart jackhammers against her ribcage. His face is beautiful, more beautiful than any face she'd seen on a mortal, even on the man beside her. And then she realizes that the noise had come from the broad, golden wings stretching out from the angel's back, each feather marked with a single, staring eye. _My children_ , he greets, his mesmerizing face lifting into a smile. All at once, Clary feels at peace beneath this angel's watchful gaze, somehow knowing he means them no harm.

"Raziel?" Jace questions, though it's more a projection of his thoughts than something he wants an answer to. The angel nods, and even that motion is languid, flowing and graceful. Even his feathers are still in the slight breeze, like he's manipulating the weather around him, or maybe like he's not really there at all. "I believe you've come for this." There's awe in Jace's voice, but also a quiver as he extends the pyxis toward the angel. Instead of grabbing the box, Raziel lifts the pair up on his palm, vaulting them through the sky until they are level with his face.

The pyxis disappears from Jace's hand, and while normally Clary would be alarmed, she can't feel anything but calm as she's enveloped in golden light. _You have served me well._ _Your efforts will not go unrequited._ Clary and Jace are too stunned to speak, clinging to each other as Raziel lifts his other palm. Four figures laced with gold take shape, smiling as they appear. "M-mom?" Jace says, and Clary's eyes trail the woman, tall and lean with strawberry curls and brilliant blue eyes. Raziel's placed them all on the ground, and Clary releases Jace's hand as he runs to Celine, burying his face into her shoulder. His own body wracks with sobs as she shushes him gently, soothingly like only a mother can.

"My boy," she whispers, holding him at an arm's length. "My beautiful baby boy." She dusts a tear from Jace's cheek before smoothing a golden lock of hair from his face. "I'm so proud of you." His hands grip her to make sure she's real, solid before him.

"I saw them…I couldn't…I…" he stammers, but she places a finger to his lips.

"Shhhh, none of that now." One of the other figures rests a heavy hand on Jace's shoulder, the proud smile of a father on his lips. Jace embraces this man, too, tightly, bone-crushingly, though neither complain.

"You've become a great warrior, son," Stephen murmurs, holding his son like he might disappear at any moment. "But you've become a better man." Joyful sobs erupt from this small family as they embrace, lost in their own little bubble, oblivious as a woman with crimson curls emerges from behind.

"Mom?" Clary calls, running into the woman's waiting arms. Jocelyn catches her, twirling her in a circle as their tears dampen both their shirts. "Are you really here?"

"I'm really here, baby," Jocelyn whispers into her daughter's hair, pulling the curls through her fingers the way she'd done when Clary was a child. "I've never left you, Clary." Clary can't get a word out between her cries, clutching her mother, inhaling the familiar jasmine perfume Lucian had given her for their wedding anniversary.

"How?" she finally asks when her chest has settled. "You're….you're….you _died_." Jocelyn puts her hands against Clary's shoulders, holding her away so she can look at how much her daughter has grown. Before Jocelyn answers, there's a small voice from behind them all, confused and nervous. Clary whirls to see a boy with messy brown hair and knobby knees pushing a pair of glasses up the bridge of his nose.

"Max!" Jace and Clary take off running at the same time, scooping the trembling boy into their arms and showering him with hugs and kisses.

"W-what is happening?" the little boy asks, rubbing his eyes with his fists and sending his glasses askew once more. Jace fixes them for him before clutching him close once more. Finally, Raziel reminds the group of his presence.

 _Clary and Jace, you've shown great dedication and perseverance in the elimination of Valentine. This one has decimated an entire galaxy and almost eliminated entire populations. Your success was not in vain, but it was not without sacrifice_. Jace glances around at the soft smiles these ghosts are giving him. _I am only strong enough to bring two back to the earthly plane_. Jace's smile falters as he reaches out for his mother's hand, clutching it to still the shaking.

"We're okay, son," Stephen tells him with conviction. "We are not alone over here. We will wait to be reunited again."

Jace's composure cracks again as they put their arms around him. "I only just got you back," Clary can hear his agonized whisper, clinging to her own mother with one arm and Max with the other.

"We aren't going anywhere, baby," his mother says gently, pushing curls behind his ear. "We will always be with you. We will be together again." The Herondales nod at the bright angel embracing their son one last time before a shimmering veil drops once more, hiding them from sight. "We love you, Jace."

Clary can see Jace is fighting the urge to scream, to run to the spot his parents had just been. His shoulders are stiff, muscles coiled, until Max trots over and yanks at the edge of his shirt, looking up at him with big, brown eyes. "Do I get to see mommy and daddy now?" Max asks, and Jace lifts the boy off the ground, rocking him back and forth.

"Yes, Maxie. You do."

X.O.X.O.X

Wandering Child – Wild Rivers

Jace follows Clary as she sprints into the Idrisian summer, her skirts lifted revealing dirtied pale feet as her hair whips in the wind she's creating. The sun kisses her skin gold, reddening the freckles that run across the bridge of her nose and spill onto her cheeks. He's content to watch her splash into the little lake, turning toward him with sparkling green eyes and a grin that crinkles their corners. The air is hot, pressing down on him like a quilt as he trails behind in his black gear. Six weeks had passed since the battle of Lake Lyn, six weeks since Valentine gifted him the new scar centered between his shoulder blades, since Raziel had taken the pyxis and lifted the veil to bring Jocelyn and Max home.

Celebrations lasted for weeks, joyous outcries at the beloved king and queen's return, at the defeat of Valentine, at the peace in the universe. Clary had been happy to regain her title as princess, and the moment she'd placed the crown on her mother's head, she'd grabbed Jace's wrist and sprinted through the woods to her favorite place in Idris.

She's hanged her linen dress on a tree branch where it sways softly in the breeze and in her crimson curls resurface off the shore, her body bobbing between the waves. "Come on, Jace!" she bellows, her laughter tinkling like bells in the air. Jace kicks off his boots and his jeans, following it with his t-shirt as he wades in beside her. He can see her reflection in the water, all pale and pure as she spits a mouthful of water into his face, laughing hysterically before he dunks her beneath the surface. Her carefree spirit has returned now that the weight of the worlds has been lifted from her shoulders, and he has to admit, it is contagious and intoxicating. "I love you," he murmurs against her lips as he pulls them deeper into the water, cool against their sunburned skin.

In the distance, the cottage sits, partially hidden behind the bigger house Jace had built for Clary. The winters in this part of Idris are survivable, and Jace can fend off any wild animal threatening to attack. With the threat of Valentine gone, neither Jace nor Luke had qualms about Clary sleeping above ground.

"I love you, too."

"Get a room!" Isabelle yells, emerging from the trees with a towel draped over her arm, Simon hot on her heels. Max is talking Simon's ear off about comic books and superheroes, and Simon seems just as interested in the conversation. A new diamond ring glints in the sunshine on her finger as Simon's eyes trail her motions with the same loving gaze Jace often finds himself giving Clary. Izzy and Simon had grown close over the months, though with the chaos of Kaelie's potions and kidnappings, Clary hadn't had much time to pay attention and was surprised when Isabelle asked her to be a bridesmaid.

Behind them come Alec and Magnus, their conjoined hands swinging between them without a second thought. They'd gotten together after the war, said 'to hell with everyone else' and decided to finally be who they truly are. "Allie!" Jace calls out to his brother and splashes him, who responds with an icy blue eyeroll. They float and swim in the water all day until the nighttime chill drives them into Clary and Jace's new home, gathered around a roaring fire. Max is asleep in Jace's lap, and Isabelle is dozing on Simon's shoulder. Alec is having a heated debate with Simon about crossbows, and Simon, who obviously disagrees, is struggling to keep himself still as to not wake his fiancée. Magnus is watching Alec from an armchair, warming his toes and the smile on his face.

The door opens to reveal Luke and Jocelyn, who each carry a pack of bottled beer, distributing them among those gathered. "When are you going to give me grandkids to fill this empty house?" Luke asks, and Jace almost chokes on his drink, sputtering for a response. "I'm kidding…well kinda…remember it's the law."

Clary rolls her eyes, patting her father's knee as he settles into the couch beside her. "Yes, Dad. We know." Jocelyn bursts out in laughter, rousting Max who promptly scuttles to his feet and bows to the king. Luke smiles and rustles Max's already messy hair. Clary intertwines her fingers with Jace's, leaning back and marveling at the fact that somehow…somehow they'd all survived this mess. Even the king of hell himself could not pull them apart, and as Jace smiles at her with his chipped incisor on full display, Clary knows that nothing ever will.

* * *

 _There it is. This story has been my baby, my pride and joy for over two years. Thank you for taking this adventure with me._

 _All My Love_

 _~BallinBlonde21_


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